I thought it best to change the subject before she had talked herself into a deeper sense of guilt. I said, “We weren’t properly introduced last evening. My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Crawford. Most of my friends call me Bess. What would you like me to call you?”

Startled, she said quickly, “I’d rather not-”

I smiled. “It’s rather awkward not to know what to call you. I don’t mind if it’s not your true name.”

At that she gave me a faint smile in return. “Yes, all right. My mother’s name was Lydia.”

I went about clearing away the tea things, my back to her, giving her a little privacy. After a few minutes I said, “I must leave to do a little marketing. You must be as ravenous as I am. But you’ll be safe enough here. No one will come, I promise you. And the shops are just a few streets away. I shan’t be long.”

She made no comment. But after a little time had passed, she said, regret in her voice, “I was terribly foolish. I can’t think what came over me. But he’d never struck me before. I was mortified. And angry. And frightened. And so I ran away.”

I could see that in the light of day she was beginning to have very cold feet indeed. I wondered where that would lead her. At the moment she appeared to be convincing herself that the best course open to her was to return to her home. But that could change. I wondered if it was true, that he’d never struck her before this, or if she was concealing other occasions of lashing out in anger. And I still wasn’t convinced that her husband wasn’t in some trouble or other. She wouldn’t betray him. Whatever he had done, whatever they had quarreled about.