Why she wished to draw my notice to such monstrous pictures completely eluded me. Nevertheless, she pulled me with great determination to a window smeared with what seemed a pomade of grease, ink and dust. Pasted over it was an assortment of images and pages of pamphlets, as disgusting to behold as the glass panes themselves. Here, in bold lettering, the immediate execution of the entire royal family was demanded. One engraver had seen fit to render the King and Queen stripped naked as a sans-culotte lashed them with a whip. Another depicted the Queen abed with one of her ladies-in-waiting, entangled in an embrace. ‘You please me just as well as that bullock, my husband’ read the words inscribed upon it.

I turned to Mrs Elliot to gasp over the audacity of such prints, but found that she seemed to be peering through the glass in the shop door. I stared at her a moment, until she noticed me there. She gestured for me to join her, and although somewhat puzzled, I approached her. She turned me to face the door.

‘Can you see? Can you see within?’ she demanded.

I hesitated. I was two heads smaller than her and from where I stood the glass was so gummed with grime that not an inch of it was transparent. ‘No . . . I am afraid I cannot . . .’

At that she seemed to sigh.

‘I mean to have a glimpse of those blackguards who peddle such tripe,’ she muttered, pressing her face nearer. Then, all at once, she stopped and a satisfied glower spread over her countenance. ‘Hmpf.’ She sniffed and then tugged at my sleeve to come away.

‘Did . . . did you see them?’ I enquired as we continued along the colonnade.

‘I saw all I cared to,’ she announced. I had anticipated she would reveal more of her thoughts upon the matter, but she maintained her silence. ‘My stars, what a pretty assortment of miniatures,’ she said before I had an opportunity to pose any further questions.

She drew us to a halt before a bowed window where an assortment of little painted visages was displayed. Each was carefully set in a golden oval or a black square, or surrounded by pearls, garnets or plaited locks of silken hair. My friend leaned forward to study their detail more closely.

‘These are not half so accomplished as the portraits you rendered,’ said she.

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘How you flatter, madam.’

‘But no, no, Henrietta dear. You must not mistake my admiration for empty platitudes.’ She addressed me firmly and her look was so earnest that it disarmed me. I shook my head and lowered my eyes.

‘I am no miniaturist. My works are simply fine line sketches with a touch of wash. I have never learned to work on ivory. It . . . it is a skill—’

‘Pshaw,’ she dismissed me. ‘Your protests only succeed in furthering my resolution.’

‘Your resolution for what . . .?’

‘Why, to have you paint my portrait, dear child.’