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old-fashioned,” he admitted, looking about him in consternation, and she smiled, saying nothing.
    From the dining room there was a wide, sweeping view where the blue hills of the next island rose beyond the bay, and she went across to look out of the window. “Oh, exquisite!” Below her she heard male laughter and, glancing down, she saw the factor’s sons on the path below. The younger one dropped his head when they saw her, but the older one raised a hand in a friendly salute. Something told her that their laughter was connected with herself, and she turned aside, the salute unacknowledged. Then her eye was caught by a display case above the fireplace, where an unusual bird, the size of a goose, sat on an untidy nest. “What extraordinary colouring.” She went closer. A bright red eye stared out of a black head above a necklace of black-and-white feathered patches, a pattern which continued onto its body, giving the effect of dappled light reflecting off still water.
    â€œAha. Gavia immer , my prize.” Theo came and stood beside her, his hands in his pockets. “I got him just off the headland to the east, many years ago. But the display is contrived, I confess; they don’t breed here.” He guided her back across the hall to another room. His study.
    â€œGood heavens!” She stood, aghast, at the threshold. It was a large room, overlooking the strand, and should have been beautiful, but was choked with desks, bookcases, and cabinets, and on every surface stood stiff, lifeless birds, arranged in varying poses, their eyes dull and unfocussed, and their very stillness was numbing. In other wall-mounted cases, the scientific intent was more obvious, and the displays more brutal. Wings, which carried light bodies on soft breezes, had been severed, splayed and pinned to show the mechanics of flight; tail fans, designed for balance and courtship, had been treated likewise. Their dusty staleness gave an odd atmosphere to the room, and again she felt under a silent scrutiny.
    She glanced at Theo as he examined a parcel on his desk and thought how strange it was to destroy wild creatures only to fix them again indoors in a semblance of life— Then she saw an easel beside the window and went over to it, feeling more comfortable with the painter than the collector. She picked up a half-finished sketch which, at first glance, seemed to show a young girl, but on closer inspection she saw that it was a boy, a naked youth, graceful and slim, water glistening on his back as he emerged from a rock pool. “A masterpiece in progress, Theo?”
    He looked up and frowned slightly. “Hardly,” he said, coming over to join her. “A mere scribble. I shan’t finish it.” And he took it up, glanced at it, then tucked it into a pile of old canvasses, burying it from sight.

    The following days passed in a pleasant idleness as Beatrice explored her husband’s refuge and found everything delightful. The house, of course, was impossibly old-fashioned and could be made so much brighter with a light tone of paint and the banishment of heavy oak furniture to attics or outbuildings. But for now she kept such thoughts to herself— After years of frugality at home, spending Theo’s money was something she was cautious about, despite the carte blanche he had given her to order whatever she wanted, and change whatever needed changing. “Except in my study, of course,” he had added hastily, and she had laughed at his expression.
    About a week after their arrival, she had awoken as the early morning light shafted through her window, and yawned self-indulgently before opening her eyes, resting her arms in an arc above her head. She lay a moment listening to the gulls, then slid a hand across the bed, but Theo was gone, long gone, the sheets grown cold. She rolled over, sweeping her hair aside, to look wherehis head had dented the pillow beside her, wondering again where