Ellie used it to give the leather binding a careful wipe.

‘Books,’ she assured him, having clearly demonstrated the necessity, ‘should be dusted at least once a year.’

‘Oh? Is that what you were doing?’

Did his face warm just a little? Not with anything as definite as a smile, but surely there was the slightest shifting of the facial muscles?

‘Dusting?’ he added.

No, not warmth. Just sarcasm. He was a sarcastic cynic.

Without a sense of humour.

Fortunately, before she could say something guaranteed to leave her with a huge empty space where the roof over her head was meant to be, the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the half-hour, and, genuinely surprised, she exclaimed, ‘Good grief! Is that right?’ She looked at her own wristwatch and saw that it was it fact ten minutes slow. ‘I lose all sense of time when I’m dusting a good book.’

‘Perhaps you should save your energies for something less distracting?’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m prepared to suffer,’ she assured him, wheeling the steps back into place. She didn’t actually feel much like climbing them, but she’d have to do it sooner or later, and it was a bit like falling off a horse-best to get straight back on. Or so she’d heard. ‘I hate to leave a job half done.’

‘Very commendable, but I’d be grateful if you’d save it for another day. I have calls to make.’

Ellie ignored him. She wasn’t about to scuttle off like one of his students put in her place. She’d been there, done that-although not, admittedly, with any lecturer who looked like Benedict Faulkner-and got the degree to prove it. Instead she concentrated on finishing what she’d started.

‘Are you going to be much longer, Miss March?’ he asked, as she worked her way along the shelf.