‘I’ve never thought of myself as a modern artist,’ Tom says, dropping his brush into the jar of turps. ‘They used to laugh at me at Chelsea because I loved Samuel Palmer.’ He glances at the diplomat, who surely can have no idea who Samuel Palmer is. But the man is listening intently. ‘The function of the artist is to disturb – that was the big idea then. But I’ve always been drawn to beauty and mystery – hence the laughter. These days, though, I make things like this, even though I don’t want to. The horror just seeps out. Perhaps artists have rediscovered the ability to – what did you call it? – to incarnate.’

‘Yes. I wonder.’

‘Because I’d love to have the ability, the … the power to do what you said: to paint her just as she was; not just her, but her soul. Instead I’ve just disturbed us both.’

‘Is this what they talk about at the War Artists’ Advisory Committee?’

Tom laughs. ‘I think their conversations run mainly to invoices. I’m Tom Collyer, by the way.’ He holds out a paint-stained hand.

‘George Seferis,’ says the man, shaking it warmly. He nods at the painting. ‘Who is she?’

‘Oh. A friend.’

‘Hm,’ Seferis says. ‘I wonder: would you care to dine with my wife and me tonight? We are both rather starved of interesting company. The talk here is so utterly circular.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

That night they eat bad food and drink good wine. The diplomat’s wife is called Maro. They talk, inevitably, about Greece and what is likely to happen when George Papandreou and his government finally land. ‘It will be a disaster,’ says Seferis. ‘It is already a disaster. These men … they are being led around by a bunch of utter fools and incompetents in, I am afraid to say, your British government. They couldn’t even sell peanuts to children, half of these men, and yet they are deciding the future of my country for me. Not just Britain. Russia as well. I am afraid that the heroes – I call them that, yes – of the resistance have been betrayed from the very beginning. And this rabble cannot agree on the smallest thing amongst themselves. They are all professional politicians, you see.’ His lips curl in distaste. ‘It is all personal spite and vendetta and not a thought for our poor country.’

‘And do you tell them this?’ asks Tom, fascinated.

‘Maro and I dine, most nights, at the table of the Foreign Office in the hotel across the street. Where I am treated like Judas Iscariot at the Last Supper. But I’ve had enough of this tragedy. Let us talk about art! Do you know the paintings of Nikos Ghika? I feel sure you would like them.’