The painting is, to my mind, one of Mr Chinnery’s finest, but I am not, as you know, Puggly dear, always the most impartial of judges. It may well be that my passion for this picture springs from a sense of sympathy with the subject – Adelina was her name – not only because she is of variegated parentage, but also because of what I know of the circumstances of her life and her death (and when you hear the story, as you presently shall, I think you too will agree that it is indeed impossible not to be moved …).

You will understand from this that my acquaintance with this painting is not of any ordinary measure (it took no little time and effort, I can tell you, to ferret the story out of Mr Chinnery’s apprentices) – but fortunately I had the presence of mind not to betray to Mr Chan, the extent of my familiarity with it.

‘I do know that painting,’ said I. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘What do you think, Mr Chinnery, could you make a copy of it for me? I will pay handsomely.’

This put me in something of a quandary, for I know that my Uncle would be incensed if he found out – but on the other hand Mr Chan is such an elusive character that I cannot see how he could find out; and nor are my material circumstances such that I can afford to refuse commissions. I said yes, I would gladly do it.

‘Very well then, Mr Chinnery,’ said Mr Chan. ‘I am leaving Canton tomorrow and will be away for four weeks. I would be most grateful if you could have the copy ready for me when I return. I will pay you a hundred silver dollars.’

This quite took my breath away – for the sum is not much less than my Uncle himself might expect for a painting – but you will be glad to know that I was not so nonplussed as to be unmindful of the matter that had brought me there. ‘And what of Mr Penrose’s pictures, sir?’ said I. ‘And the golden camellia?’

‘Oh yes,’ said he, in the most casual way. ‘I will look at the pictures while I am away. We will talk about it again when I see you next, in four weeks.’

And that, my dear Puggly-devi, was the end of it.

I went straight back to my room and stretched a canvas upon a frame. But on making a start, I realized that the task would not be as easy as I had thought. Conjuring up that exquisite face was like raising a ghost from the dead: I began to feel haunted by her presence. For it was here that Adelina died, you know, in Canton, in the very river I can see from my window – almost within sight of the studio founded by her grandfather (it still stands, on Old China Street). This is the other thing I share with Adelina – she too was born of a line of artists. Her grandfather was indeed one of the greatest figures of the Canton School – his name was Chitqua and he was, in all things, a pioneer. While still in his thirties – in 1770 I think it was – he travelled to London, where an exhibition of his work was mounted at the Royal Academy. It created a great sensation and he was feted everywhere he went: Zoffany painted him and he was invited to dine with the King and Queen. Not since Van Dyck had a foreign painter been accorded such a reception in London – and yet, despite his great success, Chitqua’s life came to an inglorious end. On his return to Canton he fell in love with a young woman of humble origin – a boat-woman some say, while others allege her to have been a ‘flower-girl’.