The desks are arranged in a semicircle. Set on a pillar in their midst is a marble bust. Mr. Cope, the drawing master, stops at each of our desks in turn, looking, offering advice, occasionally altering a line. There is a concentrated quiet as we contemplate the object before us. What we are attempting is not an act of transferal. We are not trying to reproduce the bust. Rather, we are struggling to convey what we see—the figure’s relationship to the space around it, the way the light falls and obliterates part of a cheek—and this is infinitely more difficult.

The face is of a Greek goddess—Artemis, perhaps, or Aphrodite. I focus on the jaw and neck, trying to understand the connection between them. Mr. Cope comes and stands behind me. He watches but does not interfere. He knows that this is something I must do for myself and leaves me to battle on alone.

I immerse myself in the conundrum of my picture. I grapple with space and form, light and dark, contour and texture. In the process I forget your pain and Father’s misery and Stella’s cares.

The hands on the clock move forward. At last I stand back and consider my work. I survey the arch of the nose, the angle of the mouth, the slope of the throat and shoulders. I nod. I am pleased with what I have achieved. I have given my goddess life.

The light from the stained-glass window casts dancing oblongs of color on the stone floor of the church. Everywhere I look I see faces straining for a glimpse of the bride. Jack is already at the altar. We wait with Stella in the vestibule, trying to quell Father’s protests that he is being abandoned, and watch for the vicar’s signal. At last the organ begins its march and we make our way down the aisle.

I cannot take my eyes off Stella. There is something different about her. I look at her walking ahead of me on Father’s arm, nodding to the assembled guests, and search for the words to describe her. She is like a sleepwalker who has been woken from her trance. As she takes her place next to Jack at the altar, she is no longer a girl bowed down by duty but a woman transformed. In her vows I hear the inklings of a promise: life can continue without Mother.

The bird is so lifelike I gasp. I pull the sketchbook toward me and study the picture. I take in the accuracy of the outline, the intricate shading of the feathers, the perfectly observed detail of eye and beak and claw. Sensing my admiration, Thoby turns the page, and I see a series of smaller drawings of the same bird.