As we walked down the passageway, we exchanged a secret smile which took me right back to our illicit courting days. Hugo pushed on through into the tall, sunlit gunroom and I followed. I'd swung my easel round to face the wall, not that I cared, but I always felt it was too in-your-face left on display to all comers. Belinda, principally, who was no doubt always creeping in, having a peek. There was no space to view the painting from the wall, however, and since I knew we were going to go through the Picture Viewing motions first before we talked — oh, we knew each other very well — I walked across and swung it round to face us. Hugo gazed, considering. Presently, a small, delighted smile spread to his lips.

"You've got him," he whispered.

"I have, haven't I?" I agreed. No point dissembling. I had no truck with false modesty. "But only literally today. The face, I mean. Up until yesterday, no, only the body. But I had a bit of a breakthrough."

Hugo was properly smiling now, like a little boy. I loved that look: totally candid and open. "You've got everything," he said delightedly. “The naughtiness, the shrewdness, the showman, the quizzical gleam — integrity, too. Not too twinkly. It's brilliant, Flora." He threw his head back and laughed, looked back down at it again, tears of mirth in his eyes. He shook his head in wonder. "I love it."

"Not quite there," I admitted, but I was quietly thrilled.

“That shoulder . . .” I peered critically. “Looks a bit broken . . .”

"Well, it is," he told me, moving closer and peering too. "He broke his collarbone playing rugby at Oxford. But I know what you mean." He always told me the truth. "He's old, but not quite that slumped."

"Exactly. But that's fine, at least I haven't made him too square, that's harder to fix." My fingers were already itching for my brush. Now that I had the face there was so much I could improve on, but I knew from experience I needed the man there, too. Hugo helpfully turned it back for me, taking care not to touch the wet paint. He'd had some practice.

"Are you OK?" I asked him, when he'd set it straight.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

"I know."

"And Mum's right. I'm on the right track, I know it. Dad thinks I've over-expanded but there are so many more opportunities these days that simply weren't there for him. There's room for business creativity, which, as you know, is my passion. What I wanted to do postgrad at Harvard."

But hadn't got in. Unlike Tommy.

"Whereas your dad's skill was on the engineering side?"

"Exactly. But, as Mum says, he doesn't move with the times. And he certainly doesn't understand the City. Dad's fundamentally parochial — not that there's anything wrong with that."

"No." I paused. “Was it your dad who asked Tommy to help?"