I STAND BY YOUR WINDOW AND LOOK OUT OVER THE trees of the square. You have been called down to the basement for some problem connected with the press. I do not know how long you will be gone. I turn away from the window and walk slowly round the room. On the far wall are the three large panels Duncan and I painted together shortly after you moved in here. I stare at them now, trying to assess them with a critical eye. The colors are Mediterranean—red, blue, brown—the still lifes enclosed in a roundel bordered by crosshatching. I study the objects: the table, jug, and scroll of paper on my left; the piano and guitar ahead of me; the vase of flowers, open book, fan, and mandolin to my right. I attempt to rekindle my mood of tranquil absorption as I worked alongside Duncan.

You come back into the room, frowning.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

“Yes. Some muddle over an order. Fortunately, when I looked, Leonard’s directions were perfectly clear.” You sit in your customary chair. The dogs, who have been curled on the rug in front of the fire, get up and lie beside you. You let your hand rest on Pinker’s head.

“We’ve had letters from Julian. One for Leonard and one for me. They came yesterday.”

I start. This is precisely the topic I have been hoping to talk to you about.

“What does Julian say? Is he well?”

“He sounds as if he’s bent on proving himself. Leonard’s letter particularly is all about politics. He wants to use the Labour Party as a platform for an armed revolution—and he wants Leonard to help him do it!”

Your words make me blanch. For weeks now, all Julian’s letters have described is his increasing frustration at the wait-and-see attitude of the Left.

“He says Europe has only two choices—we can either surrender to the fascists or else we must fight. He thinks decisive military action is the only hope for Spain.” I bite my lip. “Is this what you and Leonard think? It seems to contradict everything we struggled for during the last war.” To my surprise, you turn away. I watch you fondle Pinker’s ears.

“Oh, we argue about it too,” you say vaguely. You raise your hand to sweep a stray strand of hair back into place. Pinker, who has been enjoying your caresses, lifts her head.

“I’m worried about Julian,” I blurt out. You swivel round in your chair.

“Why?”

“Everything he says is so black and white. I’m worried that the distance—the fact that he’s isolated and so far away—means the reality of the situation is lost on him.”