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long? Rushyford’s still moving with your fellow scholars.’
    â€˜Only five minutes or so. Rosie’s bringing me a cup of tea when she’s made Daddy’s.’
    â€˜You’re looking tired, darling.’ I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice. ‘You’ve not had another of your headaches, have you?’
    â€˜No, not today. Do you know, Mother, I’ve just been thinking I’d rather like to do a bit of painting myself.’
    I stared at her in surprise. ‘My dear child, you can’t even draw a straight line!’
    â€˜That’s no reason why I shouldn’t start now. Look at Grandma Moses! Oh, not till after A’s of course, but it would be something to do when all the studying’s over.’ She glanced at me and gave a little laugh. ‘You know, it was rather odd. I was looking at the painting a minute ago, and I suddenly thought, “It’s far and away the best thing I’ve done”! Wasn’t that strange, as if I’d painted it myself?’
    I said evenly, ‘Actually I’m glad you didn’t. I’ve never liked that picture very much.’
    â€˜Really? Why ever not?’
    â€˜I don’t know. It depresses me, all those poor souls shut outside and the uncaring lovers in the garden. It seems – egotistical, somehow.’
    â€˜Because Daddy is one of the lovers?’
    My eyes went quickly to her innocently questioning face. ‘I don’t know,’ I answered slowly. ‘That hadn’t struck me before.’
    â€˜I’d always somehow assumed that he was.’
    Perhaps, I thought painfully, my fear and dislike had no more basis than that. Nothing sinister after all, merely subconscious resentment of Lance in that lyrical garden with – someone else. Now that I looked more closely, the male figure certainly had fair hair.
    I said quickly, ‘Whatever the reason, I’ve never liked it, though I realise I’m in a minority of one. It’s just bad luck that it happens to be my wall that it hangs on! I’m always hoping Daddy’ll accept one of these astronomical offers people keep making for it. Think what we’d save in insurance premiums!’
    Behind me Mrs Rose said, ‘Here’s the master’s tea, ma’am’ and I took the tray out of her hands. ‘Yours is in the kitchen, Miss Briony.’
    â€˜Thanks, Rosie. I’ll come and have it now.’
    I went through the open french windows and down the terrace steps. The shadows lay across the grass, subtly altering its shades of green. I had become very colour-conscious since Lance came into my life.
    The studio had originally been the stable block and was screened from the house by a high bank of sweet-smelling shrubs. Its modernisation had included washing facilities and an electric hob for making tea or even boiling eggs if Lance didn’t want the interruption of returning to the house for meals. Double-glazed windows ran the length of two walls, but in today’s sunshine he had flung them open and was at his easel with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.
    He looked up at my approach and smiled. ‘That looks good. Thank you. I’d no idea of the time. Is Briony home?’
    â€˜Yes. She’s just had her usual meditation in front of the painting.’ I felt him glance at me sharply but kept my eyes on the tray as I bent down and put it on the table beside him.
    â€˜How’s the magnum opus?’
    â€˜Oh –’ He ran a hand through his thick hair. ‘Not so bad, I suppose. I still break out in a cold sweat when I remember there are three more to do before the end of June. By the way, are the Pomfretts coming on Sunday?’
    â€˜I imagine so. Why?’
    â€˜I’d like a word with Stella. It’s just a vague idea at the moment, but I think I could work her into a painting. Do you think she’d let me try?’
    â€˜I imagine she’d jump at