“Why?” Max said. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said, cutting into a potato. “I was only asking.”

“Because if you’re unhappy, or bored…”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m perfect.”

“It’s nice here,” he went on. “I can feel myself think for the first time in ages. I think I might start writing tomorrow.”

“You know, dear,” Clara said, leaning forward so she could see past Max, “you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. There’s a train straight from here to Penn Station.”

“Clare,” Max said.

“I’m only saying, darling,” she said, putting her hand on his forearm. “In case she wants to go home. She can take care of herself.”

“I appreciate it,” Alma said. “It’s good to know. Maybe I’ll do that.”

Henry fought the urge to beg her not to go. As it turned out, Effie did it for him: “You can’t leave. It’d be too sad.”

“No one’s leaving,” Clara said, chuckling, waving her hand, and took a sip of her martini. “You’re all trapped here with me.”

They finished their dinner, ordered another round—Alma was drinking Coca-Cola—and listened to the music. Max, Clara, and Effie clapped along to a jaunty number. Finally the check came. Max paid, and to Henry’s relief, Effie didn’t protest.

When they got outside, Alma said she wanted to walk out to the point, and Max said nothing to dissuade her. She put her cardigan on and started away from them, down Decatur Street toward the promenade. Henry wished he could go with her.

“Poor girl,” Clara said. “My mother taught me that if you can just pretend to be cheerful for a little while, you’ll actually turn cheerful. It’s been a great skill for me. I could teach it to her.”

“You’d better not.” Max laughed wearily. “Maybe she should go. I have to remind myself she’s not my problem.”

They got back to Clara’s a little after eight. There was enough brandy for each of them, but the gin and the whiskey were all gone. It was all for the best, Max said, tipping his head back in the armchair and closing his eyes: he would be dead to the world soon. Effie said she would too. They’d need to call it an early night.

“No sleep is better than when you’re sick,” Clara said.

“The dreams are weird,” Effie said.

“God yes, the dreams.”

As soon as Effie settled herself under the covers, she was gone—off into her strange dreams. Henry took the lamp and went back downstairs. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock.