I would dash to the drawer in which I kept my work and take out that picture. It was growing under my hands; it laughed at me; it mocked me; it was cruel; it was amused; it suggested power and an immense ruthlessness. I had captured this man and shut him up in my miniature. To have brought all this into such a small space was an achievement, I knew.

My father gasped when he saw it and said he had never seen anythingofmine-or his for that matter-to equal it.

I began to think that this way of working was perhaps more rewarding than conventional sittings. I felt I knew the man. I could almost follow his thoughts. My excitement was so intense that I would find myself gazing at him during meals or whenever I was in his company.

Several times he caught me at it; then he gave me one of those enigmatical smiles.

What strange days they were! I felt as though I had stepped outside the life I had known into a different world. The Farringdons, the Meadows, the Cambornes seemed miles away . on another planet almost.

This could not last, of course. I think perhaps it owed its fascination to the fact that it was inevitably transient.

I should go away from here. Forget the Baron who had obsessed me all these days; but the time I had spent here would in a way be caught up and imprisoned in the miniature.

Then there was Bertrand de Mortemer. Our friendship was progressing at unusual speed. It was a great joy to be with him. We rode together often. He described the family estate which was situated south of Paris.

"Not a big one," he said.

"Nothing like Centeville ... but it is pleasant... with the Loire close by and all those beautiful castles to make one feel proud every time one catches a glimpse of them."

"I should love to see them."

"They are far more beautiful than this stark old Norman fortress. They are built for living in, for celebrations, ban yes, for enjoying life, not fighting for it as they did in this grey stone castle. I feel so different when I'm at Centeville. "

"Are you here often?"

"Whenever I am sent for."

"You mean by the Baron?"

"Who else? His father set himself up as head of the family and Rollo has inherited the crown."

"Still, I suppose you could escape from the yoke."

"Rollo would frown on that."

"Who cares for Rollo ... outside the precincts of the Castle ofCenteville?"

"He has a way of showing his displeasure which can be uncomfortable."

"Does that matter very much?"

"It's usually a practical displeasure."

I shivered.

"Let's talk about more pleasant things. How is the miniature going?"

"Very well, I think."

"Is your father pleased with it?"

"Very."

"I dare say we shall be seeing it soon. What does Rollo think?"

"He hasn't seen it yet."

"I should have thought he would have demanded to."

"He doesn't exert the same power over visiting artists as he does in his family circle, you see."

He laughed and then was serious.

"Kate," he said-for some time he had called me by my Christian name.

"When it is over, you will go away from here ..."

"If our work is approved we shall go to Paris to paint the Princesse."

"But you will go from here ..."

"And you?"

"I shall hear what I am expected to do. There is always something. When Rollo asks me here it is for a reason. He has not yet explained that to me."

"Can't you ask him?"

"He has not precisely said there is something. I am merely surmising there is because when I am invited here it is usually because I am going to be asked ... no, told... to do something."

"The more I hear of the mighty Rollo, the more I dislike him." My lips curled. I was thinking of that gleam of acquisitiveness I was going to get into his eyes cold grey with a hint of blue reflection from the coat he was wearing.

"He doesn't care about being liked. He wants to be feared."

"Thank heaven I am beyond his sphere of influence. If he doesn't like my ... my father's work ... we shall shrug our shoulders and depart, taking the miniature with us ... without the magnificent diamond and sapphire frame, of course ... and perhaps it will be for sale in some London jeweller's. It would be rather fun to call it Portrait of an Unknown Man."

"Yes, I can see that you are not in the least overawed by him. He sees it too. Everyone else is ... except Nicole. Maybe that is why he is fond other."

"How can he be fond of her when he is going to marry someone else? I wonder Nicole stays here. Why doesn't she tell him to get on with his marriage and simply go away."

"It is how things are in some circles. No one thinks any the worse of Nicole for being Rollo's mistress."

"I suppose if she were the coachman's mistress it would be a different matter."

"But of course."

I burst out laughing. We both did. The incongruity of the situation struck us simultaneously.

We walked arm in arm through the gardens.

"Things are run differently in France from in England,"

explained Bertrand.

"We are more formal perhaps, but more realistic."

"More formal certainly. I suppose Nicole's staying here in these circumstances is realistic because it is actually happening. But I do think it is ... what shall I say ... cynical."

"Cynical perhaps," he agreed.

"The Baron," I went on, 'is certainly cynical. He thinks this is a perfectly normal situation . for a Baron.

"I want this woman," he says.

"I no longer want this woman. It is time I married. Here is a suitable match. Goodbye, Nicole. Welcome, Princesse, to Centeville." I suppose it is because she is a princesse that she is so welcome. "

"Undoubtedly."

"And you calmly accept that?"

"I accept it because I can do nothing else. Moreover it is not my affair."

"You are not like that, Bertrand, are you?"

He looked at me steadily.

"No," he said.

"I am romantic and I think you and I are alike in some ways, Kate."

He drew me to him then and kissed me; and I was very happy.

People came to stay at the castle sophisticated people from Paris.

In the evenings we dined in the great hall. There were no longer the intimate dinners. There was music, dancing and a great deal of gambling. Bertrand always sought me out at these gatherings and we would talk a great deal together. Our friendship was ripening. I would look for him as soon as I joined the assembly.

"He was so kind and always helpful. My father retired early on these occasions. He could see even less now than he could when we arrived in France.

The Baron took little notice of me when he was entertaining his guests, but I continued to observe him. My mind seemed divided between him and Bertrand. The contrast between them grew more and more marked. I thought of them as Beauty and the Beast.

Nicole acted as hostess, which surprised me yet once more. Everyone accepted her as the mistress of the place.

"It's rather like the King's mistress," Bertrand explained to me.

"She was the most important person in France."

People often talked to me about my father. These friends of the Baron were like himself, very cultivated and greatly interested in art and, as my father's daughter, I was accorded some respect.

Bertrand said: "We live differently at home. Much more simply. I want you to meet my mother and sister. I am sure you will like each other."

I thought that was almost a proposal.

On another occasion he said: "In our little chateau there is a room which would be good to paint in. It's very light and another window could be put in."

I was growing more and more fond of him and was happy and relaxed in his company. I was in a way in love with him, but I was not completely sure of the intensity of my feelings because it was difficult to direct them away from the Baron and the miniature. When that was finished, I promised myself, I would be able to sort out my true feelings. At the moment and this was natural enough I was obsessed by my work, even to the exclusion of Bertrand.

The time was approaching now. The miniature was nearly finished.

I gloated over it. I was almost sorry that it was nearing completion.

I felt it would leave a great gap in my life.

One afternoon when the castle was quiet, my father was resting and everyone else seemed to be out. I went to the room to look once more at the miniature and perhaps put one or two finishing touches if I considered they were needed.

I opened the door. Someone was at my drawer. It was the Baron and he was holding the miniature in his hands.

I gasped: "What are you doing here?"

He turned and faced me. His eyes were shining.

"It's superb," he cried.

"You should have waited ..."

He was looking at me slyly.

"It's not the first time I've seen it," he said.

"I've watched its progress. There is no part of my castle that can be closed to me, Mademoiselle Collison."

He looked down at the miniature.

"I can't stop looking at it," he said.

"I see something fresh every time ... It's sheer genius."

"I'm glad you appreciate it."

He laid the miniature down in a manner which I can only call reverent.

Then he turned to me and greatly to my dismay put his hands on my shoulders.

"The man in the painting is ruthless... power-seeking... lecherous cynical... It's all there. But there is one thing he is not, Mademoiselle, and that is a fool. Would you agree?"

"Of course."

"Then do not go on believing that you deceived me for one moment. I knew what was happening from the first morning. What is it? Your father's eyes? Or have his hands become unsteady? He was a great artist once. It is becoming clear to me why you came with him.

"I always go with my father," he said, imitating me."