‘How nice to see you again, Mr Williams,’ she said, and put out her hand to shake.

Her skin was warm and soft to his touch. His heart beat faster.

Lowther said: ‘Williams tells me his mother worked at this house as a maid.’

‘I know,’ Daisy said. ‘He told me that at the Trinity Ball. He was reproving me for being a snob. I’m sorry to say that he was quite right.’

‘You’re generous, Lady Aberowen,’ said Lloyd, feeling embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what business I had to say such a thing to you.’ She seemed less brittle than he remembered: perhaps she had matured.

Daisy said to Lowther: ‘Mr Williams’s mother is a Member of Parliament now, though.’

Lowther was taken aback.

Lloyd said to Daisy: ‘And how is your Jewish friend Eva? I know she married Jimmy Murray.’

‘They have two children now.’

‘Did she get her parents out of Germany?’

‘How kind of you to remember – but no, sadly, the Rothmanns can’t get exit visas.’

‘I’m so sorry. It must be hell for her.’

‘It is.’

Lowther was visibly impatient with this talk of housemaids and Jews. ‘To get back to what I was saying, Lady Aberowen . . .’

Lloyd said: ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’ He left the room and ran upstairs.

As he got ready for bed he found himself singing the last hymn from the service:

No storm can shake my inmost calm

While to that rock I’m clinging

Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth

How can I keep from singing?

(ii)

Three days later Daisy was finishing writing to her half-brother, Greg. When war broke out he had sent her a sweetly anxious letter, and since then they had corresponded every month or so. He had told her about seeing his old flame, Jacky Jakes, on E street in Washington, and asked Daisy what would make a girl run away like that? Daisy had no idea. She said so, and wished him luck, then signed off.

She looked at the clock. It was an hour before the trainees’ dinner time, so lessons had ended and she had a good chance of catching Lloyd in his room.

She went up to the old servants’ quarters on the attic floor. The young officers were sitting or lying on their beds, reading or writing. She found Lloyd in a narrow room with an old cheval-glass, sitting by the window, studying an illustrated book. She said: ‘Reading something interesting?’

He sprang to his feet. ‘Hello, this is a surprise.’

He was blushing. He probably still had a crush on her. It had been very cruel of her to kiss him, when she had no intention of letting the relationship go any further. But that was four years ago, and they had both been kids. He should have gotten over it by now.

She looked at the book in his hands. It was in German, and had colour pictures of badges.

‘We have to know German insignia,’ he explained. ‘A lot of military intelligence comes from interrogation of prisoners of war immediately after their capture. Some won’t talk, of course; so the interrogator needs to be able to tell, just by looking at the prisoner’s uniform, what his rank is, what army corps he belongs to, whether he is from infantry, cavalry, artillery, or a specialist unit such as veterinarian, and so on.’