They come into the room, in groups of two or three. Henry arrives with Nina on his arm, followed by Beatrice and Ka. I spy Gwen talking to Marjorie in a corner, Mary and Silvia by the window. There is no formality. Today Clive has agreed to talk about emotion in art, but I am in no hurry for the proceedings to begin. I settle myself on a stool and look about me. Half my guests are in love with the innovations of the French, and half are appalled by them. I do not mind. What is important is that our focus is art. I think of Father’s jeer that painting is a bastard sister to literature and wonder when you will make your entrance. You have already made it clear that you do not like my Friday gatherings. When I asked you at breakfast if you would hear Clive’s talk your only response was to impress upon me the importance of the article you are engaged in writing. I wait until most of the guests have arrived, then signal to Clive. He takes his place in the chair by the fire and calls for quiet.

You appear as Clive begins to speak. I knew you could not keep away. You perch on a cushion by the door and I can tell you are caught by what Clive has to say. I see you lean forward, eager to hear more. Though you like to mock the painters, I sense that Clive’s comments on composition intrigue you. When his talk is over you will return to your room and ponder all you have heard. You will apply his precepts to your writing. For all your affected disdain, it is my art that is showing you the way.