In the painting she stood by a long French window that allowed a sliver of moonlight to enter, and wore a purple gown – the colour indicating love of truth even unto martyrdom. The expression on canvas was in contrast to the one upon the pale flesh of the observer. The depicted lips had the hint of a smile with subtle warmth in the direct gaze; the present face displayed to the world, had humanity been attending in the drawing room, was equally beautiful but tightly contained. Behind glass. Like a butterfly in a case – such specimens as festooned the walls in their caskets, splayed out in bright colours that belayed their expiry at the hands of his honour. Such a pretty death. The door opened and the butler entered carrying a tray precisely laid with a pot of tea, toast and two soft-boiled eggs, the judge’s invariable breakfast. “I can take that,” she said abruptly. “The master has been ill. It will be my pleasure.” The butler nodded with a frigid movement of his head, and exited.
