Henry stared for a moment, forehead furrowed. “Ellen Copley,” he said, “I didn’t take you for a snob”

Everyone would think she was mad, and Ellen wondered if she was, her life had become so different to anything she had known before. Yes, life at the art school was both fearsome and strange.

A rap on the door startled her. “Ellen?” Norah called. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Ellen slid her aunt’s letter into its envelope and rose from her chair, opening the door of her bedroom to see Norah gazing at her with something like disapproval.

Her stomach swooped. As kind as Norah was, Ellen was still intimidated by her. “Who is it?”

“Who do you think it is?” Norah asked, eyebrows raised. “Your admirer, of course.” She turned to go back downstairs, Ellen following her.

Henry Mccallister was waiting in the sitting-room, one hand braced against the mantelpiece as he studied a small oil painting hung above it of a girl herding geese along a country lane.

“Ellen!” He turned with a smile at the sound of the door, his hands outstretched. “I couldn’t stay away another day. I’ve desperately wanted to know how you are getting on.”

“Well enough, I hope,” Ellen answered. She’d left the door to the sitting-room open, and she was conscious of Norah bustling about in the hallway. “Thank you for inquiring. It’s very kind of you.”

Selfish

“My motives are entirely selfish, I assure you,” Henry said, and he came forward to take Ellen’s hands in his own. “I want to hear all about your first days at the school. I’ve come to take you out to tea at the Willow Rooms.”

“That’s very kind of you, Henry,” Ellen began, “but...”

“But what?” He raised his eyebrows, his smile playful. “I consider myself your champion, Ellen. And since I put your name forward to be accepted by the school, it is my duty to make sure you are settling in. I brought the motorcar today, since I know you’ve never ridden in one.”

Ellen stared at him helplessly, her hands still encased in his. How could she refuse him? Although Henry had been effusive in his kindness and praise, Ellen didn’t think he considered her a romantic prospect.

Perhaps she was reading too much into Henry’s effusive ways, and in truth she would like to talk with someone who had no pretensions to art, even if he had an obvious interest in the subject as a trustee.

“Let me just get my coat,” she said, and slipped her hands from his. Half an hour later they were settled in the Willow Rooms on Sauchiehall Street.

“So what did you think of your first ride in the motorcar?” Henry asked as he poured them both tea.

“Bumpy,” Ellen answered with a laugh. “And alarmingly fast. But I enjoyed it.”

“I’m so glad.” Henry added milk to his tea and stirred it. “But now you must tell me how you are finding art school.”

“It is all very new and strange,” Ellen answered slowly. “At times I feel quite intimidated. But I hope with the passage of time I shall become more accustomed, and of course I am immensely grateful for the opportunity.”

Understandable

“It is understandable,” Henry said with a nod, “that it would be overwhelming at first. You have never been around so many artists before, I expect.

“But just because you are a young woman from a small place, Ellen, do not think that you have less ability than anyone else. I have seen your work, and Francis Newbery said you had great talent, if unschooled.” He smiled wryly. “That is why you are here, of course. To learn. But raw ability is something you have always had.”

“Thank you,” Ellen murmured. “It is very kind of you to say so.”

“It is not mere kindness,” Henry told her. “I believe it right down to my toes! But now let us talk of something more pleasant.”

“Is art not pleasant?” Ellen teased. She realised that she was enjoying herself more than she had since she’d arrived, and was glad Henry had asked her to tea. “I must admit, I am a shallow enough creature to prefer parties to art,” Henry said. Ellen stared at him in some confusion.

“Parties?”

“Yes, my mother is having a ball on the Friday night after next. It is, I fear, a tedious social occasion, with young ladies swanning about in gowns, looking for both marriage and dance partners. As her only son, I must attend, and I was hoping you would consider making this burden easier to bear.”

“I’m afraid I don’t –” Ellen began, stopping when Henry leaned towards her, his eyes bright as he took her hand in his own. “I am asking, Ellen, if you will go to the ball with me?”

“A ball?” Ellen asked, her hands still clasped in Henry’s. She slipped them out of his and reached for her cup of tea. She gazed down into the milky depths of her cup, willing herself not to blush. Was Henry asking her out of pity? Surely he realised how impossible her attendance at such an event would be?

Impossible

“Ellen?” he prompted, and she looked up to see him smiling rather whimsically at her. “I’m sorry, Henry, but I cannot go to a ball,” she said, trying to pitch her voice between kind and firm. “It’s quite impossible.”

“Impossible?” He raised his eyebrows, still holding on to his whimsy. “I should think not! Especially if I call for you in my motor car –”

“Don’t.” Ellen cut him off, her voice sharp. She pressed one hand to her hot cheek; she most certainly was blushing. “Please don’t.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, her voice low. “Surely you see the impossibility of it – our different positions?”

Henry stared at her for a moment, his forehead furrowed, and then he sat back in his chair and shook his head slowly. “Ellen Copley,” he said, “I didn’t take you for a snob.”

“A snob!” She drew back. “I’m hardly that. I’ll have you know I grew up by the rail yards of Springburn.”

“There are many forms of snobbery,” Henry informed her. “And believing a lass from Springburn can’t come to a ball held in Dowanhill is snobbery.”

Ellen shook her head helplessly. “It seems like common sense to me.”

More tomorrow.

On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Dave Young