Maureen’s cheeks are drawn in as if all propriety has gone out of the window, as the stranger realizes.

“I do apologize for being carried away by your son’s appearance. MacTavish. Hilda Mactavish.” She holds out a glove by way of a peace offering.

Maureen is aware of one or two groups of women watching a little way off, but she takes the offered hand. “Maureen Stewart. I’m glad you approve.”

Hilda smiles more broadly and her thickly carmined lips ripple with pleasure as she drinks in the sad-looking boy with his head bowed to hide as much of his face as possible. “My establishment concerns itself with the daintier, prettier side of boys’ outfitting,” she says, tugging at the hems of Melvyn’s blazer and lifting his chin with two fingers.