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    Darcy followed her into the ill-lit interior and up several flights of rickety stairs, until she stopped on the uppermost landing, which was inches deep in dust.
    â€œâ€™Ere you are, sir,” she said, bobbing him something that resembled a curtsey and holding out her hand.
    Darcy put a coin into it and knocked on the attic door. A familiar voice called, “Come in,” and Darcy opened the door, walking into the large attic room with a sharp sense of interest. It was bare of any furniture, save for a bed, a table, and a chair; but canvases, sketchbooks, paintbrushes, and all the paraphernalia of an artist’s studio filled the large space. An easel stood over by the east-facing window, and on it stood a painting, while in the corner farthest from the easel, cleaning a paintbrush, was Paul Inkworthy.
    The artist had his back to him, and Darcy had a chance to examine him for a moment, curious to know more about the young man who was to accompany them on their travels.
    Mr Inkworthy looked much the same as he had on their previous meeting, and yet there was something different about him. He was still tall and thin—Darcy found himself wondering when the man had last had a good meal—and his dark, curly hair still fell in an unruly profusion over his collar, but he had an air of confidence about him that had been lacking before. It was evident in the line of his back and the angle of his head.
    Darcy nodded thoughtfully. Before, Inkworthy had been in someone else’s salon. Here, he was in his own studio, the master of all he surveyed—a small domain, it was true, but one full of riches.
    Darcy walked over to the easel and was surprised to see a half-finished portrait of Elizabeth standing on it.
    â€œAh, yes,” came a voice at his side.
    He turned to see Mr Inkworthy, who had joined him noiselessly and was looking critically at his own work.
    â€œYou have painted my wife,” said Darcy.
    Some of the artist’s former nervousness returned.
    â€œYes,” he said, uncertainly, as if he realised he had committed a faux pas by painting another man’s wife when not expressly asked to do so. But then the artist in him took over and he said, “I could not resist. It is the eyes, you see, they are so very fine. I noticed them as soon as I was introduced to her. It is not just the colour and shape, nor the fineness of the lashes, but the expression in them. It is extraordinary.”
    He stood looking at his portrait, lost in thought.
    â€œYou have caught it very well,” said Darcy, impressed.
    â€œNo.” The artist shook his head. “I have caught something of it, it is true, but my memory failed me at a critical juncture. I should have taken a sketch at the time but I neglected to do so, for which I have been cursing myself ever since. I could not remember the light in them, the exact glow, the sense of spirit… But I will capture it, I promise you. Now that I am to go to Egypt with you, I will have time to study those eyes at my leisure.”
    â€œWhich brings me to the object of my visit,” said Darcy. “ Mrs Darcy and I”—he caught himself stressing Mrs , since the young man was so appreciative of Elizabeth, and since the artist possessed a certain charm. “ Mrs Darcy and I would like you to join us at Darcy House tomorrow, so that you may spend a few days with us prior to setting out on our journey. It will give you an opportunity to become acquainted with us, with our children, and with our travelling companions: my cousin, the Honourable Edward Fitzwilliam; and a family friend, Miss Sophie Lucas.”
    Mr Inkworthy looked dazzled at such a prospect but managed to murmur his thanks. “I will need to bring my things with me,” he added. “I hope there will be room for them all?”
    â€œI am sure we can accommodate them,” said Darcy with a smile, remembering the size of Darcy House—remembering, too,