“Amanda Smith, I regret to be obliged to inform you that you are a shockingly untruthful girl,” said Sir Gareth calmly.

“It is a very good name!” she said, on the defensive.

“Amanda is a charming name, and Smith is very well in its way, but it is not your surname. Come, now!”

She shook her head, the picture of pretty mulishness. “I shan’t tell you. If I did, you might know who I am, and I have a particular reason for not wishing anyone to know that.”

“Are you escaping from school?” he enquired.

She stiffened indignantly. “Certainly not! I’m not a schoolgirl! In fact, I am very nearly seventeen, and I shall shortly be a married lady!”

He sustained this with no more than a blink, and begged pardon with suitable gravity. Fortunately, the landlord returned at that moment, with lemonade, beer, and the grudging offer of freshly baked tarts, if Miss should happen to fancy them. Judging by the hopeful gleam in Amanda’s eyes that she would fancy them very much, Sir Gareth bade him bring in a dish of them, adding: “And some fruit as well, if you please.”

Quite mollified by this openhanded behaviour, Amanda said warmly: “Thank you! To own the truth, I am excessively hungry. Are you really an uncle?”

“Indeed I am!”

“Well, I shouldn’t have thought it. Mine are the stuffiest people!”

By the time she had disposed of six tartlets, and the better part of a bowl of cherries, cordial relations with her host had been well-established; and she accepted gratefully an offer to drive her to Huntingdon. She asked to be set down at the George; and when she saw a slight crease appear between Sir Gareth’s brows very obligingly added: “Or the Fountain, if you prefer it, sir.”

The crease remained. “Is someone meeting you at one of these houses, Amanda?”

“Oh, yes!” she replied airily.