And of how many of one’s friends could one say that, he wondered. The answer, when he came up with it, was very few. There were his friends in the Scottish Arts Club, with whom Angus had lunch from time to time; all of them were good conversationalists, but for the most part the talk was light-hearted. They talked about other artists, about shows, about who had said what to whom, and about what was going on at the National Gallery of Scotland; a broad enough agenda, of course, but not the same as the agenda he pursued with Domenica. Why, he asked himself, was that? The question came to his mind as he climbed up the stairs that morning to Domenica’s flat. And the answer, which came on the second landing, outside the door of that awful Pollock woman, the one whose ankle Cyril had so embarrassingly nipped, was revelatory. He had those conversations with Domenica because she, uniquely among his friends, understood him. It was as simple as that.

He stopped, and looked down at Cyril. Something was worrying the dog, as the hairs on the back of his neck were bristling. Was there a cat about? It was the reaction commonly produced by a taunting feline presence, only this time rather more pronounced.

‘Anything wrong, Cyril, old chap?’

Cyril now growled – a low, throaty utterance.

‘My goodness,’ said Angus, reaching down to reassure the dog. ‘Traces of feline? Quite understandable, of course.’

But it was not that – not that at all. As Angus bent down to pat Cyril, the door on the landing opened and Irene looked out. For a moment her expression registered confusion – what was this man doing on the landing? – followed quickly by recognition and understanding.

‘Oh, it’s just you,’ she said.

Angus inclined his head politely. ‘Indeed it is.’

‘And that dog of yours,’ said Irene, looking at Cyril with a mixture of distaste and disapproval.

‘Cyril,’ said Angus. ‘My dog.’

Cyril stared at Irene and gave another low growl.

‘He’s a most unfriendly creature,’ said Irene.

Angus ignored the comment. ‘And how is your little boy?’ he asked. ‘Bertie, isn’t it?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Irene. ‘And we have another one now. Ulysses.’

Angus suppressed a smile. ‘Such a nice name,’ he said. And thought – but did not say – for a Greek.

Irene nodded absent-mindedly in response to the compliment. There was something else on her mind. ‘You’re an artist, aren’t you, Mr Lordie?’

Angus inclined his head again. ‘A humble limner,’ he said.

‘And somebody told me that you paint portraits.’

‘I do indeed. I paint other subjects, of course, but I suppose one or two people know me as a portrait painter. Not exactly Henry Raeburn, of course, but a portrait painter nonetheless.’

Irene wrinkled her nose. ‘Raeburn was so predictably bourgeois,’ she said. ‘All those pictures of the propertied classes, all congratulating themselves.’

Angus was silent.