The figures bend in the same direction, the ovals of their heads incline together. I work the circumference of his shoulder, the hoop of his tailcoat as it fans out behind. I create his apparel with streaks of color—purple, brown, black, palest pearly green. My dancer must not be static. Fluidity is his essence. I wrap the woman’s body around his, repeating the curve for her flank and thigh. Her arm reaches across his in an exaggerated bow. She leans on him, eyes closed, while he contains and directs her. I mix mustard yellow and ocher for her dress, applying it in thick bands. She is the beloved, after all. She must have the primary place. I worry that my figures lack solidity. I use black to enhance their outlines, to define the features of their faces. I accentuate the folds of his jacket, the dark pleats of her dress as it falls across her breast. The grid I have drawn to block out the space is still visible. I decide to keep it in. It sets my figures in a world apart. I like it that the mechanics of my invention are still present. The background must be decorative, gay. I choose earth colors—terra cotta, sienna, burnt umber. I concoct a frame round my couple, more ovals. My lattice is both open and enfolding. The dancers are vulnerable. They must be protected from the demons of this world.

I unwrap the glasses from their tissue paper and place them on a tray. Clive found the glasses in Paris and we carried them home in our luggage. They are old and each one is slightly different. When I have finished I put the tissue paper back in the box and look about me. I hardly recognize the room. It is full of the things Clive has brought. There are new carpets and cabinets and chairs. Mauve curtains hang in the windows, their yellow linings vibrant in the light. Everything feels modern, opulent, alive.

My portrait of Nelly Cecil is on the mantelpiece. There are some crudenesses in the execution but I am pleased with the result. I have painted Nelly reading by a window. Her eyes, the dark mass of her hair, are accentuated by the black of her dress and the somber colors of the drape behind. I plan to exhibit the portrait. I have already shown it to Margery, who thinks it the best thing I have done.

You arrive early. You stand in the doorway, noticing the changes. Clive kisses you on both cheeks. You bristle.

“We are enjoying the story you sent us.” My peace offering works. Clive winks at me above your head as he picks up the relay.

“Yes. I particularly liked the explanatory passages, where the prose was less wrought. It had an immediate quality I felt some of the more poetic writing lacked.”