I get up and walk to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Julian and Quentin at play. On the table in front of the window are several pieces of paper covered in your writing, surrounded by bottles of ink and pens. As I stoop to look more closely, I realize that the pages are decorated with the children’s sketches. I pick up one of the sheets.

“These are lovely,” I say, studying the drawings.

“Yes,” Leonard acknowledges, “it was one of Virginia’s ideas for keeping the boys occupied while they were here. Her original plan was to produce a play, but I persuaded her it would be more restful if they worked on something where she could sit down. I know she’s sorry not to be able to finish the story with them.”

I examine a cartoon figure of a woman in a large hat pedaling furiously on a bicycle.

“Is she really so ill?”

“Dr. Fergusson is worried about her heart. He wants her to see a specialist in Wimpole Street.”

I gaze at Leonard.

“So you think it might be her heart this time rather than her old problem?”

“I’m not sure it’s possible to separate them. Whatever it is, she’s taken it seriously enough to agree that she shouldn’t have the boys.”

“Can I see her?”

Leonard nods his consent and I make my way to your room. You are not in bed as I had expected but sitting upright in a chair, your writing board on your knee. You look up as I come in.

“I thought I heard a car.”

I sit down on the bed.

“How is Angelica?” you ask, arranging your pages in a pile.

“To be absolutely honest I’m not sure.” I stare at the floor, wondering how the nurse is coping.

“Nessa . . .” You hold out your hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you down. You know how much I was looking forward to having the boys here.”

“Were you?” I cannot prevent the shrill note of accusation.

“Of course. I’d made all sorts of plans for things to do with them. Leonard insisted on calling you.”

“And you do everything Leonard says?”

You let your outstretched hand drop to your lap.

“I owe him so much, Ness. You can’t imagine all he does for me.”

I look away. I remember the anxious concern in Leonard’s voice as we spoke on the telephone, the expression of tenderness that came over his face as we talked about you in the sitting room.

“I’d be lost without him. I just wish that sometimes . . . he’d let me flex my wings a little.”

I think of Duncan’s affair with Bunny, his prolonged absences from home.

“And what would you do if you could flex your wings?”

“Oh, lots of things. Have children, for instance.”

“It’s not too late.”

You look at me in scorn.