“But do you really think all this”—I gesture vaguely toward the neat pile of Leonard’s papers on the table—“can make a difference? After all, they burned Clive’s pamphlet. If anything it seemed to whip up support for the war. Did I tell you Duncan was showered with white feathers when we walked home from the village last week? It was horrible. Two of the butcher’s boys followed us all the way down the street.”

I sigh. I have always found politics impossible to understand. I am not even sure I am in favor of women having a vote. It feels so unconnected to the things that matter. Even now, the thought that the countries of Europe are fighting each other seems such madness I find it difficult to comprehend.

“Just because we’re not caught up in all the jingoism doesn’t mean we should ignore it. Maynard says that since Kitchener’s poster all his brightest students at Cambridge have enlisted. At the very least, we need to work out what all these words that decide our fortunes mean.”

I look at your notebook lying face down on the floor beside you. I have not forgotten your request to talk to the Richmond Women’s Guild. My silence appeases you. When you speak again your voice is gentler.

“Besides, in the end, your art will suffer.”

I bristle. This is something I feel passionately about.

“Politics doesn’t come into it! When I’m working on a picture what I’m looking for isn’t in the world at large. It’s in the relationship between the object in front of me and my marks on the canvas. I never know what it will be when I start working, but I always know when I find it. It’s the thing that makes sense of all the rest. It might be an echo—a repetition or movement—or it might be a single joining line.”

I stop. My old, nagging fear that you will ridicule whatever I say beats in my head. To my surprise, you are listening intently. For the first time I look at you. Though you are still pale after your illness there is something different about you. I gaze at your plump cheeks, the rosy flesh on your neck, the ample curve of your stomach in your lap. A new thought sears my mind.

“You’ve put on weight!”

You beam, amused by my change of subject.

“Yes. Leonard did not rule an entire Ceylonese province for nothing. If I eat up all my dishes I am given sweets!”

I stare at you, my thought gaining in depth and awfulness.

“Are you pregnant?”

You flush, then look away. I am too alarmed to worry that I may have stumbled into sensitive territory. I press on.

“I thought you had decided . . . Leonard wrote to me . . .”