Much to the satisfaction of the sitters, each of these small sketches I completed in a matter of hours, during which time tea was taken and gossip exchanged in a pleasant manner. On occasions, Mrs Elliot played hostess and sat with me in the white-mirrored antechamber I had fashioned into a studio of a sort. She entertained with her bons mots and teased the gentlemen as I bent over my small easel. Afterwards she would gaze upon me and with the satisfied smile of a mother offer words of praise.

‘See, my dear, how celebrated you are?’

I was, however, under no illusions. I did not believe for one instant that my patrons sought me out for my reputation, nor was I so deceived as to think they came of their own inclination. They had been encouraged and enticed. It was but another act of kindness, of charity, I had concluded, orchestrated by one who wished to demonstrate her affection for me. Her intention was to beat the fattest birds in Paris from the hedges in the hope that they would fly towards me. And indeed what better tool for this than to hand about a pretty portrait of the sweet young paintrix herself?

She had conceived of such a clever plan. It was genius, to be sure, for she had determined not only to set a fashion for my miniatures among the demi-monde and gentlemen of the haut ton, but to distract me from my woes. Whether or not she believed it to be possible, Mrs Elliot sought to convince me that I might earn an income through the practice of art rather than the practice of love. Her strategy succeeded, but only to a degree. I was not paid as might be an artist of any name or esteem, but rather rewarded in the manner of a femme galante. Bouillon sent me a gold filigree patch box, and from the Chevalier I received an ivory fan from Pondicherry into which had been folded some verses, ‘On Beauty’.