I went to the funeral of my (distant) cousin, Kate Duncan-Jones, who I knew when my parents lived outside Oxford and, also, as the executor of Dame Helen Gardner who had left a portion of her estate to support the acquisition of literary portraits by the National Portrait Gallery. She was in her early thirties when I knew her – tall, a bit shy, slightly ethereal, already a fellow of Somerville where she taught till she retired. The service was held in St. Barnabas, Jericho, wholly appropriately as a monument to the Oxford Movement, very high church as was her grandfather, the Dean of Chichester. (Her grandmother, Caia, was brought up alongside my grandmother, Bee, who was not her sister, but her first cousin, so the kinship was remote):