“It’s one of the stages. That’s all.”

Rowland, who could hear desolation beneath the irony in her tone, decided to lie. “No, no, that subject never came up.” He reached a junction, slowed, then turned left. “Besides, if it had, I’d have been interested. I’ve read your father’s Vietnam book. And I admired it. His early work was very powerful.”

“Oh, I’m glad you think that.” For the first time, Rowland heard her voice lift with an unfeigned delight. Disliking himself as he did it, he slid in the next question fast, and—as he had hoped—caught her off guard.

“—And he must have influenced you, presumably? Was it your father’s influence that took you to Bosnia? Or Pascal Lamartine’s?”

“I wanted to make my father proud of me. When I was still a child, I always thought, if I could become—” She stopped, her hands twisting in her lap, head bowed. “Perhaps, if I’d been a boy. A son. It might have been different. As it is—it’s men who make wars, and men are better at writing about them. There have been women who’ve reported wars, of course, and done it well. But not many.” She hesitated, regaining control, and her voice became dry. “So now I’m not sure what to blame for my failure. My sex or my character. On the whole, I think it’s my character, don’t you?”

Rowland did not reply. There were several aspects of that answer that interested him, not least its resolute avoidance of any mention of Pascal Lamartine. Why did she think of her work in Bosnia as a failure, he wondered. With each sentence she spoke, he was revising his opinion of her, first this way, then the other. He liked her final question, and the way in which it was voiced. It had taken him by surprise.

Slowing the car, he glanced toward her, then, coming to a sudden decision, drew onto the side of the road.

Stopping the car, he turned to look at her.

“May I ask you something? Do you know why you’re here?”

“What—here at Max’s, this weekend?” She looked at him uncertainly, moonlight sharpening the planes of her face, then gave a slight smile.

“Yes. I realize, Rowland. I’m not a fool. I’m here because Max and Charlotte feel sorry for me. Because Lindsay’s been nagging them, I imagine, and telling them I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I’m here as an act of kindness—which I haven’t repaid too well.”

“Is Lindsay’s diagnosis correct?”

“About the nervous breakdown?” She met his gaze, then frowned and looked away. “No. I think perhaps I was close. At Christmas. Christmas wasn’t a very good time. I’m better now.” She hesitated. “Meantime, of course, I’ve been behaving badly, as you pointed out this morning. I’ve been irritating people. I’ve been irritating you—and I do know that. I can feel myself doing it.” She gave another half-smile. “You know what Lindsay says? She says I give her compassion fatigue.”