‘Sorry, I’m being a bit dim, I know, but why did you do that?’

‘To draw attention to the WSPU’s campaign for universal suffrage. I’m an adult woman and thus deserve the vote. Goodness, you’re still smiling. You’ve listened longer than most people do.’

‘Because I agree with you. You’re going to win, by the way. I’m Bernice Summerfield.’

The woman shook her hand. ‘Constance Harding. I was going to go to my first dance this year, but now, obviously, I can’t. When did you come out, by the way?’

A forkful of cake stopped halfway to Benny’s mouth. ‘Sorry?’

‘Your accent gives you away.’

‘My accent?’

‘Yes, my dear.’ Constance sighed. ‘Do you know, I was hoping to go cruising before I came out…’

Benny frowned. ‘Isn’t that rather the wrong way round?’

‘I suppose so. My mother was going to come too.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, she’s very gay.’

‘Obviously.’ Benny ate her cake thoughtfully. She raised a finger to ask a question, then lowered it again. ‘You know, I think we’ve been talking at cross-purposes…’

Constance glanced up. A plodding blue figure was moving down the street outside.

‘Oops. Terribly glad to meet you, must be going.’ She took off her hat, dropped the cake and scones into it and ran for the door. ‘Do have the cream.’ And she was gone.

Benny laughed out loud, once more incurring the displeasure of her fellow customers. She didn’t mind paying Constance’s bill at all.

After lunch, Bernice returned to her lodgings at Station Cottage. She’d popped into the art shop where Mr Sangster had provided her with some oils that she needed.

He’d regaled her with stories of the Boer War, straight, she suspected, out of some cheap paperback he was reading.

Station Cottage, as the name implied, was right next to the level-crossing over the branch line. Every two hours, a little train went past, carrying commuters to and from Norwich. The cottage had a little garden with just the right sort of light and facing, and Benny had set up her easel there, intent on painting the gentle hills above the town. Atop one of them was a monument of an old woman, sitting with her basket. This, she had been informed, was Old Meg, who, sometime last century, used to walk all the way to Shellhampton and back every day to sell her small goods. Good to be remembered, Benny thought, for something so everyday and difficult.

She made herself some sandwiches, and wandered out into the garden, putting a hand up to her brow to get a good, distant look at the work in progress. Quite good, really, for a novice.

‘It’s utterly wonderful!’ boomed a familiar voice from the street. Alexander Shuttleworth was leaning on the fence, fanning his florid face with his panama hat.

‘You must have been exhibited, surely? Have you sent anything to the National?’