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of silk and muslin, looked at him vaguely and said, ‘Oh, what a pity. You will not meet my squire when he arrives.’ And Effy started to criticize Amy for saying ‘my squire’ and did not appear to notice.
    Mr Haddon left, feeling very low.
    *   *   *
    Sir Charles Digby sat in the library of his pleasant country mansion and wondered what to do next. He had made all the necessary calls on old friends and acquaintances in the neighbourhood. His steward had turned out to be a good choice, for everything was in order. Too much in order. There did not seem much for him to do. After the years of fighting, he hated the novelty of being idle. But he had promised himself a short time of leisure and enjoyment.
    He found himself thinking of the Wraxalls’ sitting room and how pleasant it had been. There had been huge vases of country flowers, cleverly arranged, scenting the air. There had been an exquisite piece of sewing discarded on a chair and brightly coloured silks spilling out of a work-box. His memory of that room with its bright chintz curtains at the windows and the pretty furniture now made his own surroundings seem very gloomy and masculine. He had never got around to those redecorations he had planned with Delilah. The furniture which had served his father and grandfather now appeared massive and heavy, almost as if it absorbed the light. The curtains were of stiff dull red brocade, the colour of dried blood. There was no carpet on the well-sanded floor. The squire’s sitting room had boasted one of those flowery carpets, very jolly and cheerful.
    Sir Charles decided that what his home lacked was a woman, a wife. He would like sons and someone pretty to sit with and talk to in the evenings. How incredibly exotic and beautiful Delilah Wraxall had become! An orchid among the English flowers of Kent. He remembered her as she had been at seventeen, plump and pretty and ingenuous, her eyes as wide and innocent as those of a fawn. He remembered talking to her at length and occasionally becoming irritated when it seemed as if Napoleon and all his threat to England meant so much less to her than a new recipe or the latest fashion from London. She had changed outside, but he was sure her mind had not changed. He dreamt of a woman, not necessarily beautiful, but with a clever mind and a certain something to excite his senses. He had no intention of following the example of most of his peers and looking for love and recreation outside marriage. He would expect the wife of his choice to be equally faithful. He thought again of Delilah. Evidently, she had become a dreadful flirt. Sir Charles despised flirts.
    No, there was not even one lady in his immediate neighbourhood with whom he would be happy to settle down. He felt restless. The sunny weather only seemed to make him discontented. He remembered he had promised himself an extended stay in London on his return. There were so many plays and operas to see, so many army friends to look up. His best friend, Lord Andrew Bergrave, had pressed him to come on a visit to his fine town house in Brook Street.
    ‘Don’t even trouble to write,’ Lord Andrew had said. ‘I shall be in London right up until Christmas.’
    And there were clever and witty and fascinating women in London society whose minds were surely of a higher order than those of the little misses of the neighbourhood.
    Delilah. How his thoughts kept returning to her. The squire had made him feel uncomfortable. He should never have kissed her. But she had seemed so young and endearing and he had been going away and thinking he might never return.
    He decided to start arrangements to go to London that very day. No need to tell anyone other than his steward. If the local worthies knew he was going, then he would have to endure another round of calls.
    Beginning to feel more cheerful now that he had come to a decision, he made plans for his journey.
    Delilah began to feel a certain pleasurable anticipation as the day