I push open the bathroom door. Duncan is standing by the washstand, his shaving brush and razor laid out on a towel. He turns and waves at me, a broad smile on his face. I have spent the afternoon pulling weeds from the vegetable garden, and I am tired and yearning for a bath. Duncan lathers soap onto his cheeks, oblivious of my desire. I wait impatiently for a few moments, then, seeing that Duncan has no intention of hurrying his toilette, decide to start filling the bath. I watch the steam rise in lazy coils as I let in the water. My legs and back ache from my exertions and I long to immerse myself in the heat. I take off my shoes and stockings. Duncan’s chin is tilted away from me as he wields his razor across the snowy patina of soap. I remove my dress and knickers and let them drop to the floor. I am naked now except for my chemise. I sense Duncan watching me in the mirror. He grins as we make eye contact and brandishes his soap. I hold up mine in reply. Then I lift the skirt of my chemise and pull it over my head. I climb into the bath.

I pad into my bedroom, swathed in towels. I dress in a skirt and blouse I have thrown over the back of my chair. The blouse is creased and there are smears of paint on the skirt but I am indifferent to such details. I push my hair into a bunch with my hands and cover it with a saffron scarf.

It does not signify, how I look. I have abandoned all attempts to be fashionable. I have irrevocably put aside the ridiculous ordeal of endeavoring to be well dressed. I tie my scarf in a knot and remember the tedium of trying to keep my hair in its cage of pins. Here I dress for comfort.

I go downstairs. There is a fire in the sitting room and I squat in front of it, holding my palms up to the blaze. Duncan is reading on the sofa. Suddenly I want him to put his arms round me more than anything else in the world. I seat myself beside him and lay my head on his lap. He accepts my homage without a word.

There is a shout at the bottom of the stairs.

“Nessa? Come and see this!” Roger’s voice slices through the calm. I hold my brush suspended over my picture, praying that the intrusion will pass.

“Nessa! Where are you? You have to come!” Roger’s call sounds closer. I hear him climbing the stairs. I duck my head behind my easel, wondering for one idiotic moment if it will screen me from his view. His body fills the doorway.