Larry has what he calls a ‘gammy’ leg. He drags himself in like Long John Silver, but without the attraction of a parrot.

“Taxi waiting,” he wheezes. “No cash ‘til Monday, I’m afraid, Julia. Be a love and lend me £20 quid. Then the driver will help me in with the pictures.”

Mistress takes two ten pound notes out of the Italian vase on the hall table. This vase is meant to take in the loans that she is constantly dealing out. It is often empty. The light catches the vase from the high window and reminds me of Pierre Bonnard and his colourful interiors. He is one of Mistress’s favourite artists. Together we like to look at illustrations of his nude wife in the bath, of which there are several.

Larry would like to paint Mistress in the bath. Instead, he has to make do with her in a tight black bodice sitting on her bed with the curtains closed.

It’s some operation, I can tell you! Larry and his gammy leg mounting the stairs, rucksack on his back and wittering on about his arthritis.

“Go on, Julia, give us a bit more flesh, will you? You weren’t born in a convent,” he says as he pulls his brushes out of his pocket. A palette follows from the depths of a dirty canvas bag. “Any chance of a small drink?” he asks.

His eyes squint towards Mistress.

“It’s 11am, Larry,” she responds. “I’ll make you a coffee in half an hour.”

Long ago, I decided that Larry is the sort of artist who will never be interested in Dogs or Nature.

“Can we get rid of your animal?” he asks, and now he is staring at me in a way that makes me feel like an intruder in my own house. Who would believe it?

I bare my teeth.

“That dog’s got halitosis, you know”, Larry says.

I want to warn Mistress that the zip on her long skirt is undone.

“Tommy’s breath is far sweeter than yours, believe you me,” Mistress retorts. She bounces around on two velvet cushions. “How long is this session going to take? I have a lot to do today.”

The artist lifts a paintbrush and points it in her direction. He looks queasy. Archie calls his complexion a bad case of Francis Bacon. I agree. Larry’s other hand feels for the counterpane. I can see that he has the ‘shakes’ and start to wonder if he will make it home when the time comes.

Larry wipes his forehead with a paint smeared handkerchief.

“We can’t hurry this,” he croaks. “Not a work for the National Society of Portrait Painters.”

“You haven’t had a picture shown with them for eight years,” Mistress answers. “And you don’t seem to have moved from my chin for the last five sessions!”

Larry is now wiping his eyes with the same handkerchief. They are turning crimson in front of us. If I could cover my ears, I would, because this kind of conversation distresses me. But their talk is broken up by the peal of the bell for the second time today.

Mistress pulls her shirt on and is off that bed in a matter of seconds. The two of us fly down the stairs, happy for the interruption.

Mistress opens the front door in bare feet.

It’s the tall man in the black coat again.

“Good morning, Miss Taylor,” says Mr Grieg.

“This is an official visit to check the quota of rubbish in your bins.”