We got up from the table, I excited and flushed, trembling already in anticipation. I wondered if he would tell the waiter, take my arm smilingly and say, ‘You must congratulate us, Mademoiselle and I are going to be married.’ And all the other waiters would hear, would bow to us, would smile, and we would pass into the lounge, a wave of excitement following us, a flutter of expectation. But he said nothing. He left the terrace without a word, and I followed him to the lift. We passed the reception desk and no one even looked at us. The clerk was busy with a sheaf of papers, he was talking over his shoulder to his junior. He does not know, I thought, that I am going to be Mrs de Winter. I am going to live at Manderley. Manderley will belong to me. We went up in the lift to the first floor, and so along the passage. He took my hand and swung it as we went along. ‘Does forty-two seem very old to you?’ he said.

‘Oh, no,’ I told him quickly, too eagerly perhaps. ‘I don’t like young men.’

‘You’ve never known any,’ he said.

We came to the door of the suite. ‘I think I had better deal with this alone,’ he said; ‘tell me something – do you mind how soon you marry me? You don’t want a trousseau, do you, or any of that nonsense? Because the whole thing can be so easily arranged in a few days. Over a desk, with a licence, and then off in the car to Venice or anywhere you fancy.’

‘Not in a church?’ I asked. ‘Not in white, with bridesmaids, and bells, and choir boys? What about your relations, and all your friends?’

‘You forget,’ he said, ‘I had that kind of wedding before.’