‘You may smoke if you wish,’ Miss Tuke said.

‘Thank you.’ I finished my glass of port and lit up. Not many fags left. Never mind: some at home. Old Timms in the high street gave me the tick. It was too soon to visit him yet, though. Last time he’d talked about the bill.

Miss Tuke leaned across the table and said: ‘I wonder, I hope you won’t think me too inquisitive, I wonder if you were ever out east at any time?’

‘I was five years out in Madras.’

‘I thought so. My nephew was out in India for many years. He was in Bombay.’

‘I’ve never lived in Bombay.’

‘You remind me a little of him. About the same height and age. He was twenty-nine.’

‘I’m twenty-seven.’

‘He was my favourite nephew.’ She sighed. ‘Poor boy. He died last year.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Pneumonia. He couldn’t stand the English climate.’

‘I don’t stand it awfully well.’

‘You look pale. You should take care of yourself.’

‘I have malaria occasionally. Recurrent bouts.’

‘You should have someone to take care of you. Are you married?’

‘No. I take care of myself.’