“Mallory has married. Adrian has married. Even Maynard thinks of marrying. They’ll all succumb.”

“Except you?” It is the question I hardly dare ask.

“Except me.”

I look up and see the hopeless expression on Duncan’s face.

“Nessa. I wish I could.”

My hand trembles. I sense Duncan watching me, gauging my reaction. I look at the trees I have painted, the wall, the sky. Perhaps, if I stare at the shapes hard enough, I will find a reason to go on.

“Ness.”

He wants me to absolve him, to tell him it makes no difference. I gaze out the window and notice a clump of young shoots nestling in the shelter of the wall. I turn back to my canvas.

“Let’s finish our pictures.”

We are in the sitting room at Charleston. We have been listening to Maynard’s account of the peace settlement, and this has led to a discussion about the wisdom of laying down one’s life for the general cause. Roger, who has been rebuilding the fire, sits back on his heels.

“Do you really think people, when they enlist, ask themselves the question? I’m thinking of the men I’ve known. They talk about the fighting and the hardship, but not about dying. Not overtly, anyway.”

Maynard leans forward.

“The thought must be there, though. Especially as time goes on and the numbers of dead increase.”

Roger does not reply. He folds sheets of newspaper into neat concertinas and tucks them between the logs.

“I can imagine agreeing to give up my life, as long as I could be sure that the world would be a better place as a consequence.” Duncan’s voice seems to float from his perch by the window.

“Ah! There’s the rub! Who could promise that? And then you have to ask yourself how long the benefit would endure. Would it last your anticipated lifetime—in which case I suppose the sum would balance itself and it would be worth the price—or would it peter out after only a few years?” There is no mistaking the cynicism in Maynard’s tone.

“Well I for one could never be persuaded that my life would be worth the sacrifice! I’d tussle Picasso for the last seat on the boat—and I certainly wouldn’t hesitate if all that was at stake was a strip of land!” We all laugh at Clive’s ebullience. Roger sets a match to his paper and wood edifice and looks at me.

“What does Woman say? Are we merely revealing the limitations of our sex?”

I watch the flames catch, greedy tongues gobbling the paper.

“I can imagine being prepared to die—for an artist I believed in, for instance.”

I feel Roger’s eyes burrow into me. I know what he is thinking. I read his unspoken plea to let Duncan go.