“Yes,” Mr. Moon told her, as he picked up his Journal again. “According to the old zoologists this kind of bird was irresistably attracted by the nutmegs strewn on the floors of certain island forests. And it came down in flocks and devoured the spice till it was drunk. While it was drunk its legs were eaten off by ants. So that afterwards it had to live always in the air. Having no legs it couldn’t alight even to sleep, and was seen continually on the wing. Hence – bird of paradise.”

Joanna had stopped her painting to listen.

“What a sad bird!” she exclaimed. “I shan’t tell Ollie that story.” But to her own secret heart she added, “That bird is like me!”

With her fine, sable-brush she put a scarlet feather – a high, delicate loop of scarlet – into her bird’s tail. Then she put a sheer sweeping blue one. Then one that cascaded pure lemon yellow. And she held the box away, drawing back her head the better to appreciate her work. How well these clear colours were shrilled out upon the black! She had never succeeded with lacquer half so well before.

“Now I have the trick,” she declared, “I’d love to do your tray for you, Trissie; and that old pencil-case of Roddy’s. I feel I could paint every bit of wood in the house.”

A gentle consciousness of pleasure came to her there on the roof-garden, and she loved her quiet companions. These Moons were her friends! What other friends had she made in London these fourteen months? In Georgie’s world she was not at home; she was joyless in Irene’s; and despite common interests she had made no intimates in the Chelsea studios. In all these quarters she had persevered chiefly because she was afraid, because she dared not lose superficial touch with her fellows, because she feared that the strangeness of her life might react in some monstrous external strangeness. But here with the Moons she was able to feel simply human, free and at her ease. She believed that both Trissie and Edwin had long ago guessed her secret, and that they understood. They were themselves sorrowful, outcast people, and therefore must surely be kind.

Joanna’s meditation was interrupted at this point by an exclamation of annoyance which came from Trissie. For some time past, neglecting her gardening business, she had been peering through the trellis, apparently observing with apprehension the uncertain movements of a stranger in the court below.

“It is a visitor for us,” she announced in despair. And as she spoke the knocker sounded upon the front door. “Who can it be? You must go, Edwin. My hands aren’t fit to be seen. It’s probably some one for you.”