Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Lucy sat beside him. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window.
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