Had he doubted her identity, a glance at the door from which she had emerged would have dispelled the doubt.

It was the entrance to a picture gallery, where, cubes and curves having served their turn and gone, the rotundists were having an innings.

Everybody and everything was in rounds, palaces and gardens and ships and Westminster Bridge, and men and women were all in circles.

The circle was the principle of life and art.

Joan Whitworth would be drawn to the exhibition as a filing to a magnet.