It is late when I come into our room. I have been trying to finish a picture, and in my absorption I have forgotten the time. Though I saw you go up to bed I do not think you will be asleep. I decide to tell you about the problems I have been struggling with in my composition.

As I push open the door the room is in darkness. I feel my way toward your bed, letting my eyes accustom themselves to the black. As I get closer I see an unexpected shape. To my astonishment I realize it is George. He jumps up at once.

“Here you are at last, Nessa. I was just keeping Ginny company.” His voice is pinched and tight, as if he is fighting to control his breath.

“Well, I shall leave you to sleep. Goodnight, dear sisters. How I envy you your beds pushed so closely together. That must be a great comfort to you both.” I hear the squeak of his shoes as he makes his way to the door.

I go over to you. You are lying with your face buried in your arms. A terrible thought crosses my mind.

“He didn’t—you know . . .” Your answer is so faint that I must bend over you to catch it.

“No. No. Nothing like that.” I hear the tremor in your voice.

“Does George come in here often when I’m downstairs?”

Your response is a wild sob.

The spider sits motionless in its web. It is outside the window and raindrops have collected on its sticky threads. They glitter as they catch the light. The wind gusts across the garden at an alarming rate. Suddenly there is a great crack. A branch from one of the trees tears free. I glance at the web. The spider is still there, the threads intact. I marvel at their tenacity. They look as if a breath could dislodge them, yet they hold while the oak tree falls.

I come into the drawing room, conscious of the image I create. I am swathed in white voile overlaid with black and silver sequins that fissure into tiny rainbows in the light. I have amethysts and opals round my neck and my hair is pinned with enamel butterflies. I am taut with anticipation. George is standing by the fireplace and turns toward me as I enter the room. He raises his eyeglass and appraises me. There is no difference between this gesture and his scrutiny of the Arab mare he has bought for my daily rides. I look to you for protection. You are sitting next to Father, reading. I see from your eyes as you lift them from your page that I am changed.

George does not speak as we drive in the carriage to the party. He leans his head against the rest and smokes his cigar. I look out the window at the necklace of streetlamps. I sense that something momentous is about to occur.