I have stopped listening. I walk to the window. All I can see are your reflections. I press my forehead to the glass and let your words run on, as if they are no more consequential than the raindrops I watch coursing down the pane. I know that for the rest of the evening you will monopolize Thoby. You will move from Shakespeare to the Greeks then on to the Romantics, and I will be more firmly excluded with each transition. Thoby’s sketchbook will lie unopened between you. I wait until my forehead is as cold as the glass then leave the room. Neither of you notice as I pull the door closed behind me.

The letter sits in its envelope, radiating friendliness. I butter my toast and mull over Margery’s words. Her decision to leave painting aside for a while in order to improve her drawing interests me. I think of Cope’s insistence on the importance of line and wonder if I should do the same. Suddenly I want to be at my easel. You and Adrian are having one of your arguments and I know that if I stay I will be drawn in. I eat my toast and push back my chair. You look up. You have been so engrossed in your attack on Adrian that you have not noticed my letter. You stare at it.

“A letter! Who is it from?” You hold out your hand. I hesistate.

“It’s from Margery.” I do not want to tell you even this much.

“Margery! And what is her crisis? I suppose she writes it at great length and with much misspelling. I never met anyone who mangles the English language with such constancy. She merits a prize!” I say nothing. Adrian concentrates on his breakfast, glad to be free of your stranglehold at last.

“Do let’s hear it. I could do with some entertainment.”

Gerald enters the dining room. He sits on the empty chair opposite Adrian and gives him a wan smile. He still cannot forgive Adrian, Mother’s youngest child, for being her favorite. He has overheard your remark and looks at you inquisitively.

“What’s all this about entertainment?”

“Nessa has a missive from the divine Margery,” you say coolly. “And we are itching to hear of her latest calamity.”

“Margery?” Gerald’s brow furrows as he tries to place her.

“Snowden,” you prompt.

“Oh, one of the painters. Yes, by all means let’s hear what she has to say. Is there any marmalade?”

You have Gerald on board. I stare miserably at my envelope.

“It’s private,” I say timidly.

“All the more reason. Private always means something delicious. Come on, let’s have it.”

I ignore you. I pass Gerald the marmalade. Then I take the envelope and stand up. To my annoyance you follow me out of the room.

“Ness?” Your tone now is pleading. I know I have to speak.