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through their shared obsession with his health. We all knew there was never the slightest thing wrong with him. Fritz, who had trained as a doctor, treated his brother’s ailments with cheerful contempt.
    By this point I already knew all was lost, and had started laughing. I decided I had better step in before it got any worse.
    â€œCome on, Phoebe. We should get going.”
    Fritz threw an arm around his mother’s fragile shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Don’t stay out too late, all right? If you get exhausted, I’ll never speak to you again.”
    â€œI’ll be careful.” Phoebe’s pride in him was so transparent that for a moment it burned away the bad impression of loucheness and disorder. Sometimes, Fritz was uncannily like Jimmy.
    â€œCassie, please make sure she has something to eat,” Fritz said. “You know how silly she can be.”
    â€œYou can’t expect me to have supper if you don’t,” Ben said, dropping a kiss on the other side of Phoebe’s head. “Do you think she should have a glass of wine? It won’t clash with the drugs, will it?”
    Fritz said, “Not at all. I think she should drink as much as possible.”
    â€œRed wine,” Ben said, with a knowledgeable air. “It’s full of antioxidants. And you should also try to have some fresh spinach, for the iron.”
    â€œDon’t listen to him,” Fritz told Phoebe. “Have anything you fancy—but bear in mind that I shall be returning at eleven. And if I don’t find you here, I shall march up to the restaurant and drag you out by your hair.”
    Phoebe kissed them both and promised to treat herself “like a piece of crystal.”

    â€œLalique,” Ben said. “Only more precious.”
    We left the boys robing themselves in fresh jeans and shirts, for their reprehensible nights out with their married women. I couldn’t help being annoyed at the way they had ruined Honor’s fleeting good impression—but neither could I help being softened by their love for Phoebe.
    Honor was quiet during the walk to the restaurant. Up to a point, I sympathized. She had been through quite an emotional shock, especially when you considered that she had spent the past few months shut up in a library with a lot of Victorian socialists. She had glimpsed the man of her dreams, only to watch him crumbling into exactly the kind of spoiled, scruffy wastrel she loathed. She was far too polite to hint at any of this in front of Phoebe.
    Fortunately, Phoebe was still convinced that the encounter had been a triumph. She was at her happiest, thrilled to be alive and energetic and out on a sweet spring evening. She seemed to know everyone in Hampstead, and we exchanged greetings with half the neighborhood before we reached Flask Walk.
    Matthew was waiting for us at a crisply draped table in the corner, reading the Financial Times folded very small. He kissed Phoebe (he treated her with a rather heavy chivalry that made me intensely proud of him) and shook hands with Honor. He delighted me by giving me a heartier kiss than usual, and muttering, “You’re absolutely gorgeous!”
    It was a magical dinner, entirely because of Phoebe. Everything pleased her. The setting was charming, the wine Matthew selected was nectar. She was touched that the owners of the restaurant remembered her, and almost too honored when the chef made her a special omelette that wasn’t on the menu. He came out briefly and mentioned that he knew Fritz. I suspected that Fritz had told him about Phoebe’s illness. He was treating her like the Queen.
    Phoebe ate most of the omelette and a few leaves of salad. The candles flickering on the table obliterated the new lines on her face, and made her eyes sparkle. I nudged Matthew’s foot under the table, suddenly filled with happiness because it was so easy to pretend there was no such thing as the future.
    She made