“My dear, I didn’t realize you had attracted the gentlemen of the press in quite such droves! I’m positively exhausted having to explain the difference between Provençal and Italianate. I hate to think how they will mangle it!”

We become aware of a commotion near the door. I see you enter, followed by a stout, gray-haired woman in a shabby suit and tricornered hat. News of your arrival shoots through the room like an electric spark. Lytton adjusts his monocle to get a better view.

“Ah, the divine Virginia, causing her habitual stir! How delightful that she should be here. Our paths hardly ever seem to cross these days.”

“She’s one of the patrons of the show. She’s pledged to spend at least £100—and says she doesn’t much mind what she has.”

Lytton laughs.

“Our friends from the newspapers flock round her like the vultures they are, hoping, no doubt, for some appetizing morsels about the new book. Still, with you as my carte d’entrée, we should be able to cut through.”

Lytton sets off boldly in your direction. I trail reluctantly behind. I would have liked to ask about Carrington. The crowd congregating round you increases in size. I should have known that even at my show you would steal the limelight. A loud, bellicose voice fanfares above the hubbub.

“My dear man, since when have the press ever got anything right?”

I strain to catch a glimpse of what is happening. The voice battles on.

“I have told you, Mrs. Woolf is tired, and will not answer any questions tonight. Now, if you will be so good as to allow us passage.”

Your companion elbows her way through the assembled gathering and leads you to a seat. As soon as anyone tries to approach you she is on her feet, shooing them away with her umbrella. It is an amusing sight.

The harpist arrives. I busy myself with arranging chairs. It is only as she begins to play that I notice Leonard appear in the doorway. He looks round the room for you, sees you installed with your companion, then makes his way to the vacant place next to me. When there is a lull in the playing I lean toward him.

“Who is that woman with Virginia?”

He turns to me with a pained look on his face.

“Ethel Smyth.”

I whisper back.

“The suffragette? Wasn’t she in prison with Emmeline Pankhurst?”

Leonard nods.

“And now she’s an equally belligerent composer.”

An arm reaches out and touches me and I look up abruptly. You stand in front of me, smiling.

“Nessa! This is the joy of having you back in England. Now we bump into each other in the street. I didn’t even know you were in London.”