This time his look at her, which she noted, but did not understand until afterwards, was frankly startled. He did not say anything for a time, but when a small road appeared, wandering off through deep sun-lit trees, he turned off into it. He asked: ‘Where’s your father living?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I see what you’re getting at. Well he’s not like that at all.’

‘Like what, I didn’t say anything?’

‘No, but you imply it all the time. He’s ex-Indian army. But he isn’t like the caricatures. He got unfit for the army and was in the administration for a time. And he’s not like that either.’

‘So what is he like?’

She laughed. The sound held affection which was spontaneous and genuine, and a bitterness which she did not know was there. ‘He bought an old house when he left India. It’s in Cornwall. It’s small and isolated. It’s very pretty. Old — you know. He’s an isolated man, he always has been. He reads a lot. He knows a lot about philosophy and religion — Buddha, for instance.’

‘Does he like you?’

‘Like me?’ The question was startling to Ella. Not once had she asked herself whether her father liked her. She turned to Paul in a flash of recognition, laughing: ‘What a question. But you know, I don’t know.’ And added, in a small voice: ‘No, come to think of it, and I never have, I don’t believe he does, not really.’

‘Of course he does,’ said Paul over-hastily, clearly regretting he had asked.

‘There’s no of course about it,’ and Ella sat silent, thinking. She knew that Paul’s glances at her were guilty and affectionate, and she liked him very much for his concern for her.

She tried to explain: ‘When I go home for week-ends, he’s pleased to see me — I can see that. He never complains that I don’t go more often though. But when I’m there it doesn’t seem to make any difference to him. He has a routine. An old woman does the house. The meals are just so. He has a few things to eat he always has, like red beef and steak and eggs. He drinks one gin before lunch, and two or three whiskys after dinner. He goes for a long walk every morning after breakfast. He gardens in the afternoon. He reads every night until very late. When I’m there, it’s all just the same. He doesn’t even talk to me.’ She laughed again. ‘It’s what you said earlier — I’m not on the wavelength. He has one very close friend, a colonel, and they look alike, both lean and leathery with fierce eyebrows, and they communicate in high inaudible squeaks. They sometimes sit opposite each other for hours and never say a word, just drink whisky, or they sometimes make short references to India. And when my father is alone, I think he communicates with God or Buddha or somebody. But not with me. Usually if I say something, he sounds embarrassed, or talks about something else.’ Ella fell silent, thinking that was the longest speech she had made to him, and it was odd it should be so, since she seldom spoke of her father, or even thought of him. Paul did not take it up, but instead asked abruptly: ‘How’s this?’ The rough track had come to an end in a small hedged-in field. ‘Oh,’ said Ella. ‘Yes. This morning I was hoping you’d take me to a small field, just like this.’ She got quickly out of the car, just conscious of his startled glance; but she did not remember it until later, when she was searching her memory to find out how he had felt about her that day.