“Should I? But I have such a shockingly bad memory!”

“Not when you wish to remember anything!”

“Oh, no, not then!” he agreed. He looked across at her, and at sight of her tightened lips and rising colour, laughed suddenly. “What a chucklehead you are, dear sister! I never yet cast my line over a fish that rose more readily to the fly than you do! What is it to be? The Malaga?”

“I will take half a glass of ratafia, if you will be so good as to pour it out for me,” she answered stiffly.

“It does considerable violence to my feelings, but I will be so good. What an appalling thing to drink at this hour! Or, indeed, at any hour,” he added reflectively. He brought the glass to her, moving in his leisurely way, but with the grace of the born athlete. “Now, what is it this time? Don’t beat about the bush! I don’t want my horses to take cold.”

“I wish you will sit down!” she said crossly.

“Very well, but do, for God’s sake, cut line,” he replied, choosing an armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

“It so happens, Alverstoke, that I do desire your assistance,” she said.

“That, dear Louisa, I apprehended when I read your letter,” he retorted, with horrid affability. “Of course, you might have summoned me to stun me with one of your rake-downs, but you couched your missive in such affectionate language that that suspicion was banished almost instantly from my mind, leaving me with the only alternative: that you wanted me to do something for you.”

“I should be grateful, I collect, that you remembered that I had written to ask you to visit me!” she said, glaring at him.

“You can’t think, Louisa, how strongly tempted I am to accept your gratitude with a becoming smirk!” he told her. “But never shall it be said of me that I stole another man’s honours! Trevor gave me the office.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Mr Trevor read my letter?” demanded Lady Buxted indignantly. “Your secretary?”