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hardly afford to ignore them, though one has to admit that the subjects they paint are not those normally considered – well, artistic, shall we say? Common people and places, and – and that sort of thing,’ said Mrs Cadell delicately, one eye on Dulcie.
    ‘Nudes, don’t you mean? And not very attractive ones at that, I suppose,’ returned Edwina forthrightly, helping herself to another chocolate éclair, lifting a delicious creamy morsel to her mouth on her silver fork. She hadn’t been married to an art dealer for thirty years without learning that since nudes were Art it was permissible to speak about them without embarrassment.
    ‘As a matter of fact, that isn’t quite what I meant, Edwina dear. Plenty of rather sordid subjects perhaps – not very elevating at any rate, to my mind – and there
are
a few nudes, though nothing actually – improper. I wonder you don’t intend going to the exhibition to see for yourself.’
    ‘I dare say I ought to make the effort. If only to see why it’s on everyone’s lips. But I’m not sure. The Gallery, you know…’ Edwina let her voice trail off and raised a scrap of fine, lace-edged cambric to the corner of a dry eye, as if the gallery Eliot had owned, where he had conducted his business and had held regular exhibitions, brought back unbearable memories, which was not the case; but she was always very careful and watched for adverse reactions when her late husband’s profession was mentioned. In Edwina’s book, buying and selling works of art came perilously close to being in trade, but if this upset her, she had never betrayed it, not even by the flicker of an eyelid. So many people had managed to overlook the connection that Edwina had been able to do the same.
    Dulcie’s heart had given a little jump at the mention of the exhibition. Grace Thurley had already suggested asking permission to visit it, but Dulcie knew that would have been to invite a refusal. Her mother was not in the business of encouraging Dulcie’s artistic ambitions. On the other hand, the surest way to get Edwina to do something she was against was to agree with her, and vice versa. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mama,’ she murmured. ‘I believe one or two of the exhibits
are
in fact said to be rather – modern.’ She couldn’t make herself blush, but she could cast her eyes down modestly; and luckily, Edwina didn’t ask how her daughter had come by this particular knowledge.
    ‘Hmm. I’m sure I don’t understand this passion for
realism
as they’re pleased to call it – it all stems from Abroad, I am convinced.’ Edwina spoke of this suspect place in the same tones as she would have spoken of Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘There’s nothing beautiful to my mind in depicting the seamy side of life…’
    But the dark side of life is all some people know, thought Dulcie – and why shouldn’t art be for and about them – real life, as lived by real people – as well as those living pleasant, sheltered lives?
    ‘…but I am the last woman in the world,’ Edwina went on, ‘as anyone will tell you, not to be open-minded. The last.’
    Then why had the decidedly modern, though admittedly disturbing, Sickert, which her father had hung over the fireplace in his very private study – not to mention the more discreet, classical nudes in different parts of the house – been removed within days of his death?
    ‘However – one cannot judge the merits of any work of art by what other people say, Dulcie. I would have thought you, as someone with artistic leanings, would appreciate that,’ Edwina continued, managing to make Dulcie’s desperate ambition to be an artist sound little more than a hobby along the lines of tooled leather bookmarks and découpage. ‘As your father always said, one should trust one’s own judgement.’
    Dulcie held her breath, sensing the possibility of this particular battle being won. Her father had been the only one who had understood and sympathised with her