I must say it was pleasant to be clip-clopping across the Seine, past the imposing shape of Les Invalides and then down several attractive boulevards lined with bars and restaurants just coming to life until we reached the Rue de Fleurus. Other cabs were disgorging their passengers outside the Steins’ building while younger, impoverished artists were approaching on foot, some carrying paintings under their arms.

We could hear the buzz of conversation and a burst of laughter long before we came to the Steins’ front door, which was now wide open. Other people were going in so we followed them.

“Gertrude and Leo don’t stand on ceremony,” Mary said. “The only criteria for being admitted are passion for art, good conversation, and the ability to hold liquor. “Ah, there she is, now. Gertrude!” And she forced her way through the crowd.

Miss Stein turned from the group she was standing with. “Why, if it isn’t Mary Cassatt. It’s a long time since you graced us with your presence.” And she held out her hand to Mary. “What brings you here?”

“Not trying to sell you a painting, that’s for sure,” Mary said with a laugh. “I know your taste is for the avant-garde and I am hopelessly mired in tea parties and domesticity. Actually I have found myself a new model—Master Liam Sullivan, aged eight months. And I have brought his mother with me. Molly Sullivan. I believe you two have met.”

Miss Stein’s sharp eyes focused on me. “Ah. So you’ve come back at the proper time,” she said. “Welcome. Did you find your friends yet?”

I decided that I had to lie to her although she wasn’t the kind of person one should lie to. “I did, and you were quite right. They got held up out of the city with no way of communicating.”

“So all’s well that ends well? That’s good. Help yourself to a drink. I know it’s France but some of my guests prefer a good strong bourbon.” She indicated a table in the corner around which several young men were hovering. “Move aside, fellows, and let the ladies in!” she bellowed. “They are dying of thirst and you’re hogging it all.”

Mary grinned at me as they stood aside for us. I noticed that one of them was the young Spaniard, Pablo Picasso. “Ah, the lady with the red hair,” he said. He turned to the men beside him. “One day I will paint her.”

“If Fernande allows you,” his companion said.

“Miss Stein is going to buy one of my paintings,” Picasso said. “We may move to an apartment with running water then Fernande will love me and be happy.”

“And still not let you paint other women,” the man said and they laughed.