"He had his studio above a restaurant in one of the back streets of Soho; I believe the family who ran it spoke almost no English. He told her he liked being surrounded by people talking in languages he couldn't understand; he found the noise of the kitchen cheering, and could eat downstairs for practically nothing. And after years of living hand to mouth, a modest legacy from a remote relative had-or so he assured her-lately freed him from the daily struggle for survival.
"The picture she bought-for two guineas; he would accept no more than the gallery's asking-price-was the first he had ever sold. He had been in London for several years, working relentlessly at his painting whenever he was not out earning his living (work, he said, had always been the best anodyne for his melancholia), never satisfied with what he produced, always striving to surpass himself. He had exhibited canvases before, during fits of enthusiasm, but had always removed them when the inevitable darkening of his mood followed, and his tendency towards merciless self-criticism regained the upper hand. But their-friendship was the word she insisted upon-their friendship, and the reprieve it brought from his despondency, gave him the impetus to work towards an exhibition of his own, and to begin the portrait you see before you.
"He had worked at portraiture as hard as he had worked at his landscapes, using various members of the restaurant-keeper's family for models, but every attempt before this had been painted over or scraped out. At first she worried about his devoting so much time to the picture, which obviously couldn't be shown. She came to his studio as often as she could, whenever her husband was-as she thought-safely occupied in the City. But as the weeks passed, she watched him becoming calmer, more confident, more assured, until, she said, the subtle transformation taking place in him became as absorbing as the progress of the portrait itself. Whilst he was working, they hardly exchanged a word, but those days of silent communion were, she said, amongst the happiest of her life-"
"It was not fair of her to say such things, to you of all people!" said Cordelia.
"Very little in life is fair. What Imogen Ward was to me, Henry St Clair was to her. We don't choose such attachments, my dear; they choose us. She came to me at the worst moment of her life; that was reward enough. I wanted, above all, to understand. And as you will shortly realise, there were things it was necessary for me to know.
"As to her relations with her husband; there was much that she withheld, but the truth was plain enough. Ruthven de Vere was not-or had not been-a cruel or negligent husband; on the contrary, he took enormous pride in her appearance; but there was an essential coldness at the heart of his regard; he valued her as a collector would value a rare and precious stone.
"It was clear that she had ceased to love him, and that matters between them had come to a crisis, long before she met Henry St Clair. De Vere, you see, had been her fathers protege in the City. Horace Ward trusted him entirely, and so the terms of the marriage settlement allowed him to do more or less what he liked with Imogen's fortune, and, a few years later, with everything that came to her under the terms of her fathers will. De Vere had always allowed her whatever she asked, but in such a way that almost everything she had ever bought was, at law, his property, even her clothes and jewels, as she discovered when she first asked him for a separation. If she left him, he assured her, she would leave with neither her money nor her son-in whom de Vere took very little interest; he seemed, she said, quite devoid of fatherly feeling, which made the threat even worse. And so she stayed.
"Until the day she met Henry St Clair, she had gone on playing her part with a sort of compliant indifference, waiting until Arthur would be old enough for her to leave. But from that day forward, she was playing for her life. When she was with St Clair, she never thought beyond the moment; away from him, her mind swarmed uncontrollably with plans, imaginings, hopes, longings, fears. Yet outwardly, as she knew from the compliments of her acquaintances, she had never looked more serene.
"Her husband, as she thought, suspected nothing. It was, she said, like tiptoeing around a sleeping gaoler, day after day, always managing to creep back into her cell before he stirred. Everything, she felt, must wait upon the completion of the portrait. Throughout that spring and summer, she was sustained by the conviction that if only St Clair could finish the picture before they were discovered, all would be well.
"In September, she was obliged to go away with her husband for a fortnight at some great country house. The day after their return to town-it was a Sunday, but she could wait no longer-she slipped away to the studio, where she found Henry St Clair contemplating the finished portrait. She was standing before the picture, with his arm about her waist, when something made her glance over her shoulder. Ruthven de Vere was standing in the doorway.
"She heard herself say, with perfect coolness, though she knew it was hopeless: 'Ruthven, this is Mr Henry St Clair, the artist, who as you see has just completed my portrait. I was keeping it as a surprise for you. Henry, my husband, Mr Ruthven de Vere.'
"St Clair stood paralysed. De Vere did not, by so much as the flicker of an eyebrow, acknowledge his presence. He offered his arm to Imogen as if they were quite alone. She allowed herself to be led from the room, down the narrow rickety stairs and out to a waiting cab, without another word being spoken.
"They reached Belgrave Square, still in silence. She had resolved to answer no questions, respond to no threats, volunteer nothing. But with Arthur-still only thirteen, though thankfully away at school-as hostage, her resolve soon crumbled. Besides, she was in fear of her life. If he had raved and ranted, she thought she could have resisted, but de Vere's constraint was terrifying. There was a sibilance about his speech that reminded her of steam escaping from an engine, and when his spittle touched her cheek, it burned like acid.
"That one glimpse from the doorway of the studio had fired a train of suspicion that burned through hours of question and accusation, towards an insane conclusion. They were alone in his study; he had ordered the servants to admit no one, and to remain below stairs. Treating every denial as an admission, he forced the date of her meeting St Clair back and back through the years until he had persuaded himself that they had been lovers before he, de Vere, had even met her; from whence it followed inexorably that Arthur was not his child.
"She had refused, until then, to admit that she and St Clair had been anything more than friends. Now she saw, too late, that her denials had spurred her husband toward the most dangerous delusion of all. In that extremity, she believed that the only way to save Arthur's life was to surrender her own: if her husband strangled her, or beat her to death, then surely the police would lock him up and Arthur would be safe.
"So she told him the truth-exactly what truth, she did not say, and I did not ask-expecting him to strike her down. Instead he grew quieter; but still he pressed and pressed for an admission that St Clair had been her lover throughout the marriage until, goaded past endurance, she said "No, but I wish he had been.
"He was standing over her as she spoke. She waited for the blow to fall, but without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
"She rang repeatedly, but no one answered. Hours passed; she paced the room, rehearsing every imaginable horror. It was close on midnight before he returned.
'"I have decided,' he said, 'that you will leave this house tomorrow morning. You will take your son away from his school-he will no longer be welcome there-and do with him as you please. But there are conditions.'