“You would, but so far she hasn’t done any better than yelling pen-and-ink.”

“Well,” Troy said, “I don’t see what you could be expected to do about it.”

“Accept with pleasure and tell my A.C. that I’m off to the antipodes with my witch-wife? Because,” Alleyn said, putting his hand on her head, “you are going, aren’t you?”

“I do madly want to have a go at her: a great, big flamboyant rather vulgar splotch of a thing. Her arms,” Troy said reminiscently, “are indecent. White and flowing. You can see the brush strokes. She’s so shockingly sumptuous. Oh, yes, Rory love, I’m afraid I must go.”

“We could try suggesting that she waits till she’s having a bash at Covent Garden. No,” said Alleyn, watching her, “I can see that’s no go, you don’t want to wait. You must fly to your commodious studio and in between sittings you must paint pretty peeps of snowy mountains reflected in the lucid waters of the lake. You might knock up a one-man show while you’re about it.”

“You shut up,” said Troy, taking his arm.

“I think you’d better write a rather formal answer giving your terms, as he so delicately suggests. I suppose I decline under separate cover.”

“It might have been fun if we’d dived together into the fleshpots.”

“The occasions when your art and my job have coincided haven’t been all that plain sailing, have they, my love?”

“Not,” she agreed, “so’s you’d notice. Rory, do you mind? My going?”

“I always mind but I try not to let on. I must say I don’t go much for the company you’ll be keeping.”

“Don’t you? High operatic with tantrums between sittings? Will that be the form, do you suppose?”

“Something like that, I daresay.”

“I shan’t let her look at the thing until it’s finished and if she cuts up rough, her dear one needn’t buy it. One thing I will not do,” said Troy calmly. “I will not oblige with asinine alterations. If she’s that sort.”