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have asked her to step aside—instead of acting like a damn brute.’
    The gentlemen in the group exchanged shocked glances. I looked at the curator: the smile on his face had vanished.
    â€˜Oh, please,’ I said, hoping to forestall an argument. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    Ignoring me, the curator addressed the artist, hotly: ‘I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜It’s not my pardon you should be begging,’ said the painter. ‘Now will you please apologise to the lady?’
    Wide eyed with outrage, the curator turned to me. ‘Madam,’ he snarled and, with a click of his heels, he gave me a sharp bow. Then, he marched off into the crowd, saying: ‘This way, gentlemen. Follow me—I believe there’s something more interesting in the next room.’
    Some of the group scurried off in his wake, whilst others turned away more hesitantly, offering me the odd apologetic smile or nod as they departed. In the interim, the young artist had come to my side.
    â€˜I do beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘That fellow is insufferably rude. Allow me to apologise properly on his behalf.’
    â€˜Oh, please—I don’t mind.’
    The young Scot scowled after the departing curator, who was guiding his charges towards the doorway. ‘That wasn’t a real apology, not by any means. But don’t you worry—I’ll drag him back here and get him to say he’s sorry.’
    â€˜No, don’t,’ I begged him, before he could charge off across the room. ‘Please don’t make a scene on my account. You mustn’t cause a fuss. After all, you could have sold your painting to one of those men, if you hadn’t spoken out.’
    â€˜Ach, no—they wouldnae have bought it.’
    I barely remember what remarks we exchanged thereafter—simple pleasantries, no doubt. We spoke for no more than a few moments. Reading between the lines, I gained the impression that the young man was slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the occasion. While we talked, he kept pulling at his collar, as though he was unaccustomed to wearing one so high, and he fiddled so much with one of his brass collar-studs that it fell to the floor, bounced out of sight, and was lost. We both bent down to search for it, but before it could be found, a different curator appeared and ushered the artist away, into the next room, in order to present him to another group of gentlemen; and soon, thereafter, my friends descended upon me, and persuaded me to join them for supper.
    That, in brief, was my encounter with the Scottish artist named Gillespie. Upon reflection, it seemed very possible that he and Annie’s husband were one and the same person. An interesting coincidence, I thought to myself—and there it might have rested, had not Elspeth invited me to meet the family again, the following Saturday, outside the quaint Cocoa House in the park.

3
    On the appointed day, finding that I had arrived at the park a little early, I decided to while away some time in the Fine Art Section. This would have been, I dare say, the last Saturday in May and, due to a spell of fine weather (before those terrible rains at the end of the month), the entire Exhibition was teeming with crowds. As I battled my way through the British and Foreign Loan Collections, I was, as ever, reminded that galleries do attract a disproportionate number of wiseacres: those persons who like to show off to their companions, and give anyone within earshot the benefit of their wisdom about the pictures on display. At one point, I even witnessed a man crouching down in order to sniff a canvas, before declaring to his companions that it was ‘ most definitely, wi’oot a doot, an oil painting ’.
    Weary of the crowds, I headed for the British Sale Room, which was always a little quieter, although, as usual, it had attracted that other unfortunate breed of citizen: those who possess no real interest in