His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. I have since received a most extraordinary letter from her. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. ’ ‘But you must. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present.
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