Bram is not expected at Richard Mangan’s house until nine o’clock, so he finds a table in a small restaurant in Marylebone. While he waits for his meal he takes out the sketches he made at the cemetery and pores over them, subjecting them to the scrutiny of his very harshest critic—himself.

Such poor imitations of what I saw. The strength and dignity of those mourners, that light … it is here and yet not. No. No. Wait, perhaps in this one? Yes! It is there. The spark of something. I must work on with this. Color. Color will bring it alive.

His food arrives and he reluctantly clears space on the table.

Am I wrong to believe I can do this? Will my new mentor assist me in revealing my talent, or will he simply reveal me to be a fraud?

He dines on what he fears might be his last steak for a considerable time, allowing for the little money he has brought with him, and then completes his journey to the address in Bloomsbury where the sculptor and his family live. He has been cautioned to expect, as Mangan had put it, “a fair amount of lassitude given and advantage taken where behavior, be it by adults or children, is concerned,” along with the warning that neither his wife nor his mistress see the value in housework. As they keep no servants—a result of both principle and thrift—this, he has been told, leads to a degree of “dishevelment” in the household.

He finds the street without difficulty. It is at the very limit of the district, where smart, stucco-fronted houses give way to less grand constructions of London brick. At first glance, the house itself looks reasonably kempt. There is no front garden, just a few stone steps up to the door. The woodwork paint is peeling in places, but the building seems solid enough, and there are gaily patterned curtains at the open windows. The day is fading into twilight, and what appears to be oil lamps give a welcoming glow from the rooms at the front of the house. From these same rooms come sounds of music and shouting, so that Bram assumes some sort of party is in progress. He knocks on the door, and not surprisingly, it goes unanswered, so, finding it unlocked, he lets himself in.

Despite what he has been told, nothing could have prepared him for the mayhem which he finds inside. The air is thick with the smell of oil paint and turpentine, so strong it catches at the back of Bram’s throat. The hallway itself has no lights, but is lit only by what lamplight falls through the doorways off it, or through what appears to be a large hole in the rear wall. There are pictures and mirrors aplenty, but no furniture, not a chair or a table, and nothing by way of hooks on which to hang a coat or hat. There are half-finished paintings propped against every wall, and wrapped lumps of stone, or smaller clay maquettes taking up space. The floor is of bare wood, which makes an excellent surface on which to ride bicycles, as three or possibly four (they move too quickly to tell) small children are demonstrating. Their shrieks of glee accompany some vigorous work on a piano in one of the adjoining rooms and the barking of a large, hairy, excitable, but mercifully friendly hound, which bounds about Bram as he attempts to set down his luggage.