Thea tried to give Susan a sisterly smile, to show they were united by the oppression of lazy men, but Susan didn’t respond. Perhaps later I’ll get her talking, thought Thea, as she followed Rory up the hill.

The studio was a huge shed with windows from ceiling to floor. In April it was decidedly chilly and must have been really freezing in winter. A wood-burning stove stood in the corner, looking too small to make much impression on the place.

‘You can see why I took the opportunity to do some painting in Provence. Lucky old Cézanne, with his early spring and baking-hot summers. Although the stove is surprisingly efficient. I’ll light it in a minute.’

Thea moved towards a vast easel with a cloth over it. The painting beneath must have been the size of one of the walls in the cottage. Rory stepped in front of her.

‘That’s work in progress. No one sees that until it’s finished. Over there are what keep me in bread and butter. And whiskey.’ He indicated a medium-sized painting of a horse.

It was an old-fashioned picture, representing someone’s huge wealth, but it was beautifully painted. ‘And is it a good likeness?’ she asked, teasing him.

‘Indeed it is. I could spend my life and earn a very good living painting racehorses.’ He made a face. ‘My aunt, the widow of the uncle who left me the house, often asks me why I don’t. The money’s certain and after all, painting is painting, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ she said for him. ‘One is a job and the other is your life.’

The look he gave her was more than reward for her understanding. She picked up a battered pewter mug and changed the subject, not wanting to have Rory make love to her there and then. ‘And so, do you surround yourself with the things in your paintings, like Cézanne? Or was this just lying around?’

He sighed, accepting her decision. ‘Women are all the same. Never satisfied until they have poked their pretty noses into every corner of a man’s heart. Hell, Thea, you’ve come a long way to see me. You can see the paintings too. They’re in the shed next door. Just don’t ask me to show them to you, or to tell you what the hell they mean.’

‘I don’t suppose my nose is that pretty, just nosy.’

He took her chin and moved her head so the light shone on her fully. ‘You do have a very fine nose, but it’s your eyes which first caught my attention.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s their colour, pale, yellowy green with a dark circle round them.’

‘Oh.’ No one had ever commented on her eyes before, which was probably why she had run away to Ireland with an artist. Possibly only an artist, an Irish one at that, could pay compliments so eloquently.