I trip down the steps and into the gardens. I turn, unthinkingly, to one side, choosing a path that winds through a small copse of cypress trees, stopping often to bend over and examine the various flowers that are splashed about, tumbling in a riot of crimson and violet from terracotta pots or growing in tangled golden constellations underneath the trees.

I follow the chirruping sound of a cricket and watch admiringly for a moment as he leaps across the path. There’s a flicker of red on his abdomen – I think he may be a species that I haven’t seen before. I am tempted to follow him but become distracted by a pretty little green hairstreak butterfly, or Callophrys rubi, who flutters around my face for a moment, her cheerful green and copper wings glimmering in the sun. With a sigh of happiness, I wind my way through tall avenues of carefully manicured yew hedges, my fingers running over their soft needles.

“Taxus baccata,” I mutter absently.

“What did you say?” a voice asks, and I look up to find that I have rounded a corner and am now standing in a large square clearing. I have found my way to the stone fountain and the sound of the water is enticing as it splashes against the stone.

Ben stands in front of me, dressed in light trousers and a loose white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. His feet are bare and on his head is a battered panama hat. As he lifts his face I notice a small scab on the bridge of his nose and a violet bruise under his right eye. I wince.

“Oh.” His voice is cool. “It’s you. I should have known you’d be the one wandering around, talking to yourself in Latin.”

It is not an auspicious start. “Are you always like this?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“So rude to people you’ve just met.”

He tips his head to one side. “I don’t know.” He smiles reluctantly, revealing a perfect dimple in each cheek. “Do you always greet new acquaintances by punching them in the face?”

“Oh, you can’t still be angry about that,” I protest. “It was just a misunderstanding. I’ve apologized several times as well as administering first aid and sacrificing one of my handkerchiefs in the process – a fact which would irk my mother a great deal, by the way, because I’m always losing the blasted things.” I smooth my skirt with my hands. “I believe that continuing to dwell on it is quite ungentlemanly.”

“Un … ungentlemanly?” Ben looks startled. “You think I am ungentlemanly?”

“Yes,” I agree.

“Ungentlemanly?” he says again, a little louder.

“You don’t need to keep repeating the word; I’m the one who said it in the first place.” I lift my chin. “But actually, yes. I think that your refusal to accept my apology and to move on graciously is ungentlemanly.”