“Charlotte,” I feel obliged to be the voice of caution, “don’t you think you should consult your father first? About the painting, I mean. After all, they only agreed you might sit for Mr. Mangan…”

The sculptor gives another loud guffaw. “You’ve nothing to fear from Bram, I promise you. A man of unquestionable integrity. I’d call him a gentleman if I didn’t consider the name an insult. A fine fellow, solid and honest as the day is long.”

Mangan bustles Charlotte out into the garden to show her some of his larger works. Bram remains, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if waiting for something more from me.

“I’m sure I appear very … cautious to you,” I say, finding myself uncomfortable beneath his gaze.

“Your friend will be quite safe here with us.”

“Perhaps. Until you take it into your heads to have her accompany you on one of your … outings.”

Bram’s smile disappears completely, to be replaced by an expression somewhere between hurt and anger.

“I see you have already formed a very low opinion of me,” he says.

“I have no opinion of you.”

“That’s not true. You think you know me, and you have judged me. Which is a pity,” he goes on. “I would far rather you thought well of me. I’m not sure why it matters that you do, but it does.”

For a moment I stare at him. It is so unlike me to be at a loss for words that I am thrown, disconcerted by what he has said, and by the way he is looking at me.

The front door of the house is flung open and a squealing gaggle of children charge down the hallway and into the studio.

“Pa! Pa! We are home!” cry what must surely be twins in unison as they belt past us, a large shaggy dog on their heels, and several more children, all equally vociferous in their search for their father. They roar out into the garden where Mangan can be heard greeting them happily. A flustered woman brings up the rear. She looks hot and out of breath but still finds a smile with which to greet me.

“Ah, you must be the lovely Pilkington-Adams girl I’ve heard so much about. Mangan is simply longing to sculpt you.” She yanks her hat from her head and mops her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Where have those children got to? Freedom has ice cream all down his shirt front. The dog’s eaten most of everybody else’s and is bound to be sick any minute. Children!” she calls as she trails out after them. “Children, you are too sticky to go near your father. Come and be washed. Oh! Hello there, who are you?” she asks, clearly having got as far as Charlotte.