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help Annie restrain the girl, who was still wriggling and writhing. As they crossed the room, supporting her between them, Sibyl tried to hang onto a chair, and then, before anyone could stop her, she reached out and grabbed at the oilcloth, with the unfortunate result that it came flying off the table. Down came the cups and saucers, the tarts and cakes, the dull teaspoons, the tarnished tray, the teapot, an old lamp (which, thankfully, since it was daylight, was not lit), a dish of dented wax fruit, a water-stained sewing box, various odds and ends, and all the church newsletters and envelopes. Everything fell to the floor with a sudden, startling crash—which made Rose take fright, and then she too burst into tears. Annie immediately hurried over to comfort her younger daughter, leaving Sibyl to sink to the floor, scarlet-cheeked, and screaming, with Mabel chiding her to behave herself and stop bothering Ned, and Elspeth, in between apologetic glances at me, trying to soothe one and all, whilst—up, up—from the pile of cloths and debris on the carpet went a great rolling cloud of dust.
    Just audible, over this bedlam, were some noises from the floor above. I heard a few impatient footsteps, and then, after a pause, a rhythmic banging, as though—in protest at the racket from the parlour—somebody was rapping the floorboards sharply with a cane or stick. The artist—in his garret! Six or seven times the floor was struck and then, it seemed, he gave up, for there was a clatter and then a rattling sound, as though he had flung down the cane and let it roll across the floorboards.
    Meanwhile, Sibyl stretched herself out on the carpet, stiffly, her little arms rigid at her sides, wailing for her ‘Papa-aa!’ until, at length, her fit of temper became so prolonged and unbearable that Annie relented, and told her that she could go upstairs to the studio and see her father, after all. At once, the child’s shrieks subsided to shuddering little sobs. Then, she picked herself up and stalked, slowly, out of the room, casting dark, accusing looks at one and all.
    I listened to her footsteps as they faltered on the first few stairs, and then increased in speed as she ascended, until she could be heard positively skipping along the upper floor, her misery forgotten. Moments later, there was the sound of a door opening and closing—presumably the door to the studio, wherein worked the girl’s father—the artist, Ned Gillespie.
    Ah yes: Ned Gillespie. You may be wondering, dear Reader, when he is going to make an actual appearance in this overwhelmingly feminine account. On this occasion, I must disappoint you, because once Sibyl had disappeared inside the studio, the door remained closed: Ned did not come down to tea, at all, that day; he showed the parlour not so much as a whisker.
    Personally speaking, I suppose that I was now quite curious to meet Elspeth’s son, to see if he was, indeed, the young artist whom I had encountered in London. Life is full of strange coincidences. In fact, it was sheer chance that I had even gone to that exhibition at the Grosvenor back in the autumn: left to my own devices, I would never have left Aunt Miriam’s side. As I have already mentioned, she was ill and, by late September, my duties as nurse had caused me to be virtually housebound, for several weeks. A few concerned friends, who had noted my pallor and exhaustion, eventually suggested that I relinquish the sickroom for one night, and accompany them, first to the Grosvenor, and then on to supper. Opening nights of exhibitions always attract a large and fashionable throng and—right up until the very last minute—I was in two minds about whether to go. Not only was I loath to leave my aunt, but I also dreaded the prospect of spending several hours, forced to make conversation, in noisy rooms. However, in the end, my friends persuaded me.
    Just as I had feared, the gallery was so