‘Oh, but it was too conclusive,’ he said. ‘But, of course, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Cedric Ancred.’

‘Oh,’ said Troy after a pause. ‘Oh, yes. I see.’

‘And then to clinch it, there was your name on that envelope. I’m afraid I peered shamelessly. But it’s too exciting that you’re actually going to make a picture of the Old Person in all his tatts and bobs. You can’t imagine what that costume is like! And the toque! Some terrifically powerful man beat it out of solid steel for him. He’s my Grandpa, you know. My mother is Millamant Ancred. My father, only promise you won’t tell anyone, was Henry Irving Ancred. Imagine!’

Troy could think of nothing to say in reply to this recital and took another bite out of her sandwich.

‘So, you see, I had to make myself known,’ he continued with an air that Troy thought of as ‘winsome.’ ‘I’m so burnt up always about your work, and the prospect of meeting you was absolutely tonic.’

‘But how did you know,’ Troy asked, ‘that I was going to paint Sir Henry?’

‘I rang up Uncle Thomas last night and he told me. I’d been commanded to the presence, and had decided that I couldn’t face it, but immediately changed my plans. You see,’ said Cedric with a boyish frankness which Troy found intolerable, ‘you see, I actually try to paint. I’m with Pont et Cie and I do the designs. Of course everything’s too austerity and grim nowadays, but we keep toddling.’

His suit was silver grey. His shirt was pale green, his pullover was dark green, and his tie was orange. He had rather small eyes, and in the middle of his soft round chin there was a dimple.

‘If I may talk about your work,’ he was saying, ‘there’s a quality in it that appeals to me enormously. It—how can I describe it?—its design is always consistent with its subject matter. I mean, the actual pattern is not something arbitrarily imposed on the subject but an inevitable consequence of it. Such integrity, always. Or am I talking nonsense?’

He was not talking complete nonsense and Troy grudgingly admitted it. There were few people with whom she cared to discuss her work. Cedric Ancred watched her for a few seconds. She had the unpleasant feeling that he sensed her distaste for him. His next move was unexpected. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damply blond and wavy ‘God!’ he said. ‘People! The things they say! If only one could break through, as you have. God! Why is life so perpetually bloody?’

‘Oh, dear!’ Troy thought and shut her luncheon basket. Cedric was gazing at her fixedly. Evidently she was expected to reply.

‘I’m not much good,’ she said, ‘at generalities about life.’