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Adam was smiling. ‘Good try, sir. If it was Donne, perhaps, at a stretch. But it’s Herbert. A conversation with God, who’s the same thing as love.’

‘How about “taste my meat”?’

Adam was even more amused. ‘Herbert would be deeply offended. I agree, the poem is sensual. Love is a banquet. God is generous and sweet and forgiving. Against the Pauline tradition maybe. In the end, the poet is seduced. He gladly becomes a guest at the feast of God’s love. “So I did sit and eat.”’

Maxfield thumped his pillows and said to Miranda, ‘He stands his ground!’

At that moment, he pivoted towards me. ‘And Charlie. What’s your ground?’

‘Electronics.’

I thought it sounded wry after what had gone before. But as Maxfield held out his glass towards his daughter for a refill he murmured, ‘There’s a surprise.’

As Christine was collecting the plates, Miranda said, ‘I think I’ve eaten too much.’ She stood and went behind her father’s chair and rested her hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m going to show Adam around the house, if that’s all right.’

Maxfield nodded gloomily. Now he would have to spend some uninteresting minutes with me. Once Adam and Miranda had left the room, I felt abandoned. I was the one she should have been showing around. The special places she and Mariam shared in the house and garden were my interests, not Adam’s. Maxfield extended the wine bottle towards me. I felt I had no choice but to crouch forwards and hold out my glass.

He said, ‘Alcohol agrees with you.’

‘I don’t usually touch it at lunchtime.’

He thought this was amusing, and I was relieved to be making a little progress. I saw his point. If you liked wine, why not drink it any time of day? Miranda had told me he liked a glass of champagne at breakfast on Sundays.

‘I thought,’ Maxfield said, ‘that it might interfere with your …’ He gave a limp wave.

I assumed he was speaking of drink-driving. The new laws were indeed severe. I said, ‘We drink a lot of this white Bordeaux at home. A blend of Sémillon is a relief after all the undiluted Sauvignon Blanc that’s going about.’

Maxfield was affable. ‘Couldn’t agree more. Who wouldn’t prefer the taste of flowers to the taste of minerals.’

I looked up to see if I was being mocked. Apparently not.

‘But look, Charlie. I’m interested in you. I’ve got some questions.’

Pathetically, I now warmed to him.

He said, ‘You must find all this very strange.’

‘You mean Adam. Yes, but it’s amazing what you can get used to.’

Maxfield stared into his wine glass, contemplating his next question. I became aware of a low grinding noise from his orthopaedic chair. Some inbuilt device was warming or massaging his back.

He said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about feelings.’

‘Yes?’

‘You know what I mean.’

I waited.

With his head cocked, he was gazing at me with a look of intense curiosity, or puzzlement. I felt flattered, and concerned that I might not measure up.

‘Let’s talk about beauty,’ he said in a tone that suggested no change of subject. ‘What have you seen or heard that you’d regard as beautiful?’

‘Miranda, obviously. She’s a very beautiful woman.’

‘She certainly is. What do you feel about her beauty?’

‘I feel very much in love with her.’

He paused to take this in. ‘What does Adam make of your feelings?’

‘There was some difficulty,’ I said. ‘But I think he’s accepted things as they are.’

‘Really?’

There are occasions when one notices the motion of an object before one sees the thing itself. Instantly, the mind does a little colouring in, drawing on expectations, or probabilities. Whatever fits best. Something in the grass by a pond looks just like a frog, then resolves into a leaf stirred by the wind. In abstract, this was one of those moments. A thought darted past me, or through me, then it was gone, and I couldn’t trust what I thought I had seen.

When Maxfield leaned forward, two of his pillows slipped to the floor. ‘Let me try this on you.’ He raised his voice. ‘When you and I met, when we shook hands, I said I’d heard a lot about you and was looking forward to talking to you.’

‘Yes?’

‘You said the same thing back to me, in a slightly different form.’

‘Sorry. I was a little nervous.’

‘I saw right through you. Did you know that? I knew it was down to your, whatever you call it, your programming.’

I stared at him. There it was. The leaf really was a frog. I stared at him then beyond him, towards a billowing enormity I could barely grasp. Hilarious. Or insulting. Or momentous in its implications. Or none of those. Just an old man’s stupidity. Wrong end of the stick. A good story for the dinner table. Or something deeply regrettable about myself had at last been revealed. Maxfield was waiting, a response was required and I made my decision.