“I’ll go,” she says. “I’ll leave you to your dream of love in a perfect world.” She pauses as she passes him. “Just don’t leave it too long to enjoy her, Artist, or you may miss your chance. Because one day she won’t come knocking on your door anymore, and it will be because she has married some dusty, dry aristocrat with a big house and a grand title. Still, there is always, as you English with your relentless optimism will say, the lining of silver in the cloud.” She smiles at him from the doorway. “An artist always does his best work when his heart is broken. You will see.”

*   *   *

We passed a dreary Christmas at Fitzroy Square. Father’s absence was all the more painful for the memories of happy times gone by. Against all odds I persuaded Freddie to stay at Radnor Hall, so it was just Mama and I who sat down to a Christmas day meal for which neither of us had any appetite. For the sake of the servants, we observed the traditions the house ordinarily followed for the festive season, though of course these were muted by our status of mourning. Mama was reluctant to take part in anything, but I convinced her that the staff should not be done down. Duty, as always for someone of my parents’ generation, is the clarion call to arms. Christmas Eve saw her giving out small gifts beneath the exquisitely bedecked tree in the hall. Together we attended a service at St. Bartholomew’s on the Strand at midnight. She was even persuaded to come to the door to listen to carol singers on one occasion. She and I knew, however, that such involvement did not necessarily reflect her own inner spirits, and we were both relieved when the festivities came to an end, the decorations were put away, and life in the house was allowed to return to its quiet winter rhythm once again.