‘Come up to the aviary. Come along. Ever seen long-tailed weavers? Got a pair up there nesting. Marvellous thing, big as a football. Well, nearly … venez voir mes oiseaux.’

As they left together and walked up a little hill above the terrace, Dottie said anxiously, ‘It’ll only be rudimentary stuff, of course. Haven’t the time for a real session, have we? Conversational stuff, just to help him cope. Things like “Où est le doubleve-se.” You know?’

‘I rather think he can say that already. But that’s the idea. And I want a bit of time on my own, frankly. A lot of things to do …’

‘Of course you have. There is a mother? I mean –’ She ended with a flush of embarrassment.

‘There’s a mother, indeed. He’s not an orphan. But she’s abroad working, so he got sent to me. It’s kind of you …’

Dottie got up with me and we started to walk towards her white picket gate. When I turned to wave goodbye to Giles he was standing beside the ornate cage watching me.

‘Will! You’ll come back, won’t you?’

‘Always!’ I called, and left Dottie in a little halo of nods and smiles.

The fine arts removal men wrapped each canvas in bubble-paper time and again and carried them down to the truck as if they had been newly discovered Monets. I was glad that I had been careful in my examination of the studio for nothing was overlooked, the work was thorough and careful, and they were carrying down the first of the ‘peasant heads’ (I could tell by the size, smaller than the abstracts) when to my surprise Aronovich walked up the path. I was raking up a pile of dead cabbage stalks. He looked pale and tired, not the bright-eyed boy he had appeared to be at the airport.

I laid the rake aside, rolled down my sleeves.

‘Ah! Don’t let me disturb you. I have to be here, apparently, to check the number of canvases and to sign various forms and things. The usual nonsense. I am so sorry.’

‘I’m glad. My back is breaking. I’m not used to farm labour, but I have to be about while they work, so …’ I walked with him up to the little terrace. He walked slowly, a notepad in one hand, a pen in the other.

‘It’s hot already. Were they on time?’ There were dark hoops of fatigue under his eyes.

‘Ten-thirty about. They took a wrong turning from Bargemon.’

‘I’ll go up and see M’sieur Hubert: he’s efficient, but I don’t remember just how many I have. Do you? The numbers?’

‘No. I never counted them. Half are one thing and half another.’

He smiled wanly. ‘Half for the main rooms, the other half for the bedrooms, if there are enough. It’s so long since we made the deal.’