Juliet giggled and applied herself to the cucumber sandwiches. Imogen sat in a dream, until Juliet nudged her. ‘Beresford’s just walked in,’ she hissed.

Imogen choked over her tea. Everyone was hailing him from all corners.

‘He’s seen you,’ whispered Juliet. ‘He’s working his way in this direction.’

‘Hullo Nicky,’ said the Club Secretary. ‘Whatever happened to you?’

Beresford laughed, showing very white teeth. ‘I saw something I fancied on the other side of the netting,’ he said, looking at Imogen.

‘You ought to play in blinkers,’ said the Club Secretary. ‘Come and join us. Have you met our vicar, Mr Brocklehurst, and his daughters, Imogen and Juliet?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Beresford, shaking hands and holding Imogen’s hand far longer than necessary before he sat down between her and the vicar.

‘Brocklehurst,’ he said, reflectively, as he dropped four lumps of sugar into his tea. ‘Brocklehurst? Weren’t you capped for England just after the war?’

Mr Brocklehurst melted like butter in a heatwave.

‘Yes indeed. Clever of you to remember that.’

After talking to the vicar about rugger for five minutes, and having wangled himself an invitation to lunch next day, Beresford turned his attention to Imogen.

‘Well, you certainly threw me,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a good thing there weren’t any Davis Cup selectors about.’

‘I’m so pleased you won,’ stammered Imogen.

‘And I’m pleased,’ he looked straight into her eyes, ‘that you’re even more beautiful close up.’

So was he, thought Imogen. Far more beautiful, with dark smudges under his eyes, and damp tendrils curling round his forehead. His voice was low and confiding as though she were the only person in the world he wanted to talk to.

And although he asked the usual questions — What did she do for a living? Did she enjoy it? Did she ever come to London? — his smoky voice, and the way his eyes wandered over her body and her face, made even those familiar phrases sound significant.