"Exactly. That's what I'd like to have you in, Roger, if you don't mind. So you're relaxed and happy."

“Splendid." He beamed. "Won't be a tick. You potter down and I'll see you there in a bit."

Relieved, I collected my easel, my bag of oils and my palette and went down the hall. I was sounding far more confident than I felt, if truth be told, but if I was to spend the next few weeks painting Roger in a dark little hole, as he sat miserably and uncomfortably before me, trussed up in a suit probably last seen at Peter's confirmation, this would surely end in tears.

When he came down and met me in the gunroom where I was already flinging open tall shutters to the vivid green garden beyond, he was wearing a cornflower-blue sweater which matched his eyes under which a pink shirt peeked cheekily, plus baggy fawn cords and suede shoes. I knew we were in business. He rubbed his hands in delight.

"Excellent! Where d’you reckon — over by the window?" He scuttled across and draped himself theatrically on the sill of the sash window. He cocked his head dreamily towards the garden, chin raised.

"It's moody," I agreed, suppressing a smile; one could never quite tell if Roger was for real or hamming it up. "But you might get rather uncomfortable holding that pose. How about in that chair?" I nodded across to where I was pretty sure he habitually sat, nursing his arsenal, and possibly a whisky, in an ancient, faded, exploding, pre-war armchair.

Roger looked genuinely scared. “She'll freak," he said weakly.

"Oh, I'll tart it up a bit, don't worry. Won't show the stuffing. And if your arms are over the bad bits, we won't see them anyway. Let's see how it goes."

He needed no further prompting and scurried, with alacrity, to his favorite old chair, next to his cabinet of favorite guns, looking out over his favorite view of the front drive, the lawn, the sea and the boats beyond. The gunroom, like Belinda's sitting room, was to one side of the front door, with a view of all the comings and goings of this great house, so that they were in effect like a couple of weather people, poised either side to dart out. Truffle, who was in her basket in the corner, got up and wandered across to her usual position by his feet, where she collapsed. Perfect.