The pictures look so orderly and finely framed here in the smart gallery, beautifully lit, and carefully positioned to show each to best effect, Bram scarcely recognizes them as being the same works that filled the spare bedroom in his parents’ house. There they were left on easels, works in progress for weeks or months at a time. Or stored in random batches in corners, to be later plucked out and reworked again or, in some cases, wiped completely from the canvas, so that he would pick up the original sketch, travel back with his mind’s eye to that place, that time, that face, that light, and begin again. But now there are no more chances to polish and to hone. What hangs on the walls in this gallery, on this day, must serve to represent all that he felt those long, hard months. All that he discovered, partly about Africa but mostly about his fellowman.

In the third room, at the very end on the far wall, is the painting that can still move him to tears if he lets it. He steps closer, steeling himself against emotion. The gentle face of the army chaplain gazes back at him. He is shown in a close-cropped portrait, three-quarters profile, the low light of the equatorial sunset warming the dusty tones of his face and hair, his pipe held lightly in his smile. Bram starts to feel rage replace the tenderness the picture evokes.

What a waste. What a dreadful waste.

“Ah, Mr. Cardale, there you are!” The gallery owner—an elderly academic who left Oxford to immerse himself in the world of art—ushers Bram back toward the reception area. “Can’t have you hiding away in here when the first guests are due to arrive any minute. Dear, dear. This is your moment, Mr. Cardale, this is the day when you are discovered, and your praises sung. And sung they will be, I assure you.” He pauses in his bolstering up of Bram’s confidence to take in the portraits and landscapes that surround him. “My, my, but aren’t they something terribly special? I can’t tell you how proud I am to have your work here. Can’t tell you … Are you happy with the hang, Mr. Cardale, is it to your liking?”

“It is all so much better than I could ever have expected, Dr. Travis. I can’t thank you enough. I only hope the public, and the critics, are as kindly disposed toward my offerings as you are.”

“Oh, the public have more sense than one might suppose. They will surely see the talent on display here today. As for the critics, well, try not to mind them. Their livelihood depends upon their saying something no one else has thought of, and it makes most of them rather bad tempered.”