“These are the ones I started with. I knew what I wanted but somehow it was easier to begin by trying out a number of angles.” I understand exactly what Thoby means and nod.

“Yes. I often find that it’s as I’m drawing that I discover how I’m going to do it. Even if I know exactly what it is I want. It’s as if I have to discard all the other options first.” Thoby does not reply but instead points to another of his sketches. This one is of a robin, its red breast picked out in crayon.

“I had a time of it here. Couldn’t get the color right.”

“Crayons are hard,” I say sympathetically.

“Hard, yes—but it’s the difficulty that makes it exciting! Nature is so varied.”

I move closer to the candlelight. The torment of the past months seems to disappear in the darkness that surrounds us. Thoby’s arm is round my shoulder, and as I lean into his warmth I can feel his heart beating. I should like this moment to last forever.

A door slams somewhere in the house and I hear footsteps in the hall. Your face appears in the doorway.

“So there you are!” You do nothing to disguise your annoyance. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing?” You approach the table and peer at the robin.

“Oh, drawings,” you say.

I feel Thoby pull away.

“I’m glad to find you, anyway. I’ve been rereading Antony and Cleopatra.” You stare pointedly at Thoby. “Really, I don’t understand what you mean about Shakespeare’s women being such glorious creatures. It seems to me they are cut out with a pair of scissors. Not so much actual women as a man’s tailored view of how women should be.”

Your words have the effect you intend. Thoby turns on you.

“Nonsense!” His eyes brim with delight at the prospect of an intellectual duel. “That’s absolutely not what they are.”

“Come now,” you goad, “you’ll have to prove your point better than that. I give you they talk divinely. I was looking at Cleopatra’s dream of Antony and it sent shivers down my spine. That still doesn’t make them real, though.”