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spoke with a teasing glimmer in his eye. I was far too inexperienced to recognize flirtation when I encountered it, and began to panic.
    “Oh no,” I spluttered, “I think you mean my cousin… she is the one who plays and sings…”
    “And you? What of your accomplishments?” He raised an intrigued eyebrow, choosing to ignore my awkward response. “I cannot imagine that a gentleman of Lord Stavourley’s learning would countenance a child reared in his nursery to be turned out unfinished.”
    “Painting.” I swallowed. “But I cannot pretend to talent…”
    “You hide behind your modesty, madam.”
    His rapid parry flustered me.
    “I… I… have received compliments on my watercolours… landscapes… my tutor thinks them accomplished, but really, my lord, I merely apply myself to my studies and then practise with my brushes what I have learned…” I replied as we crossed one another.
    This comment appeared to pique Lord Allenham, who threw me an amused look. “Your tutor has prescribed you texts?”
    “Only Sir Joshua Reynolds’ Discourses ,” I answered, which drew a crooked smile from him.
    “I dare say you will not learn much about painting nature from that!” He laughed lightly. “Have you not read Mr. Burke’s Philosophical Enquiry on the subjects of beauty and the sublime? Mr. Burke is, I believe, an acquaintance of Lord Stavourley.”
    Goodness, thought I, his lordship must think me a philosopher! I grew bashful and lowered my eyes, regretting that I did not have my cousin’s talent for conversation.
    “When I was a child, Mr. Burke came to Melmouth and pettedme upon the head…” I smiled awkwardly, realizing what a dunce I sounded. “But I cannot say that I have read his treatise.”
    At that instant his arm rubbed against my silk sleeve, the side of his coat against my gown. His touch caused me to draw in breath, and then exhale with shame. I felt so gauche, so mortified by my quivering and utterly convinced that the entire room of dancers and spectators knew that my being there was some dreadful mistake.
    “Ah, but you must!” he exclaimed as he moved towards me, his face glowing with the fire of his ideas. He pursed his lips, patiently waiting as the dance drew us apart and then back together again before he could relay his thoughts. My gaze was fixed upon his expression, for I found myself captivated by its intensity, eager to know what sentiments so animated his features. At last, he reached for my hand, taking it into his firm, warm one, and then turned his bright eyes on to mine.
    “Beauty,” he began, “is born out of the passion of love. An artist cannot make sense of a landscape without an understanding of this.” He smiled and then gave a deferential nod. “So says Mr. Burke.”
    So entirely distracted was I that I missed a step.
    Allenham paid no mind and continued.
    “And the sublime, the sublime is greater than beauty. It overwhelms the senses. It consumes us. It is the pure fury and power of nature. It must be felt to be known. An artist must feel in order to paint, and of that, madam, you will never learn from reading Sir Joshua’s dry Discourses .”
    Well, reader, I simply could not fathom how I might respond to that. What might a girl who knows nothing of society, of worldly behaviour, of nature or passion make of such a statement? I stared at him, so spellbound by his vitality, his light, his perfect assembly of features, as to be awed into silence. Why, he was the most remarkable person I had ever encountered. As I joined hands and circled with the other ladies in our square, I picked over his comments. If only I had the wit and vivacity of my cousin, I lamented. I was so simple, so frightened, such a milksop!
    “Perhaps I should improve myself by reading Mr. Burke,” was all I could think of to say.
    As we danced, I prayed he could not read the pain of embarrassment on my face. Beside Allenham I felt graceless and clumsy, while he seemed utterly