“Well, he does. But that proves nothing. Tom’s exceptional.”

“I thought he might be. I liked Tom.”

“Did you?” Lindsay swerved joyfully. “Oh, I’m so glad. I don’t expect he said very much—not with Louise there.”

“No. He didn’t. That was why I liked him. He has good taste in films. Remind me to give you some books for him. Also—” He glanced toward her. “He doesn’t miss much, I’d guess.”

“Tom doesn’t miss anything,” Lindsay said with pride. “Left or right here?”

“Left,” said Rowland. “Oh, well, never mind. We can approach it this way. Go past that factory, turn in here, that’s it… Now turn left by the Hawksmoor church. Isn’t it a wonderful church? It’s my favorite in the whole of London. I can lie in bed and look at its spire.”

Lindsay, who had never heard of Hawksmoor, turned sharply left where indicated. She was just thinking what an extraordinary neighborhood Rowland lived in, one of the slummiest and roughest she had ever seen in this city, when her eyes took in the street and the house he was indicating. She gasped, slammed on the brakes, and came to an abrupt halt with one wheel on the pavement.

“My God. What an incredible street. What incredible houses…”

Rowland was looking fondly at the row of brick façades. The houses were terraced, with fanlights and tall sash windows. Small flights of steps led up to their doors.

“They’re 1730, or thereabouts,” he said. “They were built for the Huguenots, who came here when they were driven out of France. They were famous as merchants and silk weavers. It’s always been a refugee area. After the French left, it became a Jewish quarter. Now it’s predominantly Bengali. I rescued this house. It was falling down when I bought it.”

“It’s beautiful, Rowland.”

“Isn’t it? It’s still a bit primitive inside. I’ve had it twelve years. Friends used it when I was in Washington. I’ve never really gotten around to furnishing it exactly… Oh, my God. Quick. Start the car!”

Lindsay, who was already climbing out as he said this, looked around in bewilderment. A short way up the street, she saw, there was a long, low white Mercedes convertible. From it had just emerged a tall, thin, and very beautiful young woman. For one second, in the dim streetlight, Lindsay thought it was Gini. This girl had the same figure, the same cropped blond hair, the same wide mouth, the same air of determination. But Gini would not be wearing spray-on silver trousers, a cropped black T-shirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket; she would not be wearing startlingly scarlet lipstick, and she would not be provoking this reaction in Rowland, who—now out of the car—looked poised to flee.

“You sheet,” the girl yelled, reaching Rowland, and striking him hard in the chest. “You peeg. I call. I weep. I write you letters from my ’eart. I seet in my car. I wait. I weep some more—beeg tears, look. ’Ow can you do zis to me? Merde, je m’en fiche, tu comprends?” She continued screaming in her own language, her mouth distorted with woe, tears plopping onto the leather jacket. Periodically, she struck Rowland, and periodically Rowland said, “Sylvie…”