Agnes pauses as she repositions her scissors and begins to tackle the chin. ‘Well, your grandmother is correct,’ she says proudly. ‘The shade is the purest of all portraits. Beside it, a photograph would appear too …’

‘Too alive?’ he supplies. ‘Too real, perhaps. I don’t know why, but when I see her wall of silhouettes … To me, it looks like a display of death masks.’

‘Oh, no, surely not?’ This judgement dismays her. She has always managed to find beauty and purpose in the clear lines of a silhouette, no matter what else is going on in her life.

‘Yes, I’m afraid they look that way to me. Like shells of things with the souls snuffed out.’

The blade slips. Only a little way, a quarter of an inch at most, but with this nick under the chin, she will struggle to cut the throat and shoulders. Damn these second-rate scissors.

‘A good profile exposes the soul of the sitter,’ she explains, frowning at her work.

‘Well, a photograph is a good deal quicker. I thought you had machines to do this silhouette business?’

It stings, but he is correct. At the height of her powers, she had been able to cut a shade freehand in – what – two minutes? Sometimes less. The memory is like a small death. Skill is forsaking her, too, contrary as any lover.

‘There are machines, but I favour the personal touch …’ Outside the window, the magpies beat their wings, squabbling. Agnes sighs and lays down her scissors. Here is a way out of her present difficulty with the nick, at least. ‘I would be happy to show you my physiognotrace, if you prefer?’

Ned turns again, his brown eyes sparkling. ‘Really? Could I see it? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.’

Despite herself, Agnes smiles. His enthusiasm is infectious. In a few years, Cedric will be like this: fancying himself an engineer and championing progress. An odd turn of events, considering the workers of Mamma’s generation did all they could to smash the machines that stole their livelihood. But such is humankind: hopelessly fickle.

‘It is no trouble at all. I will clean the contraption and we will use it to take your profile. You will enjoy the experience. It’s very clever, in its way.’

Bustling to the corner, she moves various pads and paint palettes off the machine. It is so webbed in dust that she coughs.

‘Here,’ says Ned, rising to his feet. ‘Let me help.’

Piece by piece, they reveal a chipped wooden box with a hatch on the side. Agnes is startled to think how long it’s been since she last used the instrument. What appeared then as the cutting edge of innovation now looks poor and dejected, its quaintness the only virtue left.