I stand beside one of the ornamental trees and wonder if I should make my way across to you. I only came to the party at Clive’s insistence. I have no costume and feel out of place amongst the gaudily dressed guests. My clothes do not fit and my hair has lost its luster since the birth. Before I can decide, a woman I do not know comes toward me. She holds out her hand like an old friend. When she speaks it is with an American accent.

“It is you! I was just saying to Cecil here how I was sure it was you. I’ve seen your photograph. You are every bit as lovely as I imagined.”

I blush despite myself. It is a long time since anyone has paid me a compliment.

“Now—may we pry?—do tell us what delicious thing you are engrossed in preparing. I said to myself as soon as I saw you standing here all alone, Lydia, do not be fooled, that woman is busy observing us for her next great work. Who knows? Perhaps I shall figure in it. Though that really would be presumptuous of me.”

I draw back from the woman’s coquettish smile. I do not understand. Does she mean I might paint her? She detects my confusion and laughs.

“Oh, don’t mind me! I love to tease. I was just wondering—you see I should so much like the opportunity to talk to you—if I might ask you about Henry James. I thought your review of The Golden Bowl quite wonderful. Do you really think him one of the greatest living novelists? After all, you British have so many distinguished writers of your own. Such a compliment to pay us Americans!”

“I’m sorry. It’s my sister—Virginia—who writes. My name is Vanessa. I’m a painter.”

The woman stares at me in disbelief for a moment, then mutters something incoherent and hurries away. I gaze after her, glad that the tree is there to screen me. Finally I pluck up courage and make my way over to you.

“So you’ve come to say hello at last.” I study the thick gold and black bands you have painted round each of your eyes. You look like a courtesan. You are arm in arm with a tall, copper-haired woman in a black Spanish mantilla I recognize as Ottoline Morrell. Your intimacy surprises me. The only time I have heard you talk about the famous society hostess was to ridicule her. You point at me with ring-covered fingers.

“It’s so refreshing to see you without your appendage. I had started to think of your body as permanently misshapen—inseparable from the large, mewling infant you had attached to your hip.”

I ignore you and shake hands with Ottoline. You refuse to be flouted.