“No, different is good. After you.”

It was clear from the way he was greeted with a warm handshake and a slap on the back that her new friend was a regular here. Though he spoke in German to the waiter who showed them to a small booth at the back of the room, Margaret could hear any number of other accents and languages. The table was bare wood but scrubbed clean. A number of men were dining alone with quiet concentration at the counter, but at the tables there was a variety of customers, mostly though not all men, several families, and one group of women.

The food, served on large platters, was copious, fragrant, and completely alien: ham knuckles smothered in red cabbage; sausages of every size, shape, and colour, served with mashed potato and pickled white cabbage; cold roasts; boiled onions; black bread, rye bread, and bread with the texture of a biscuit twisted into an elaborate shape.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Margaret said, when the waiter appeared with a jug of foaming beer and two glasses, and asked her what she would like to eat. “Please, will you order for me?”

“Happily,” Randolph answered. “Would you like to try the lager?”

“Oh yes! I developed a fondness for a glass of porter when I lived in Ireland, but I’ve never had this kind of beer. What shall we drink to?”

“Freundschaft.”

“Friendship?” When he nodded, she raised her glass. “Cheers.”

“Prost.”

MARGARET SET DOWN HER CUTLERY with a happy sigh. “That was absolutely delicious. I am going to ask Mouse to buy some of those smoked sausages.”

“Mouse?”

“Her real name is Mary. She cooks and keeps house for me, along with her sister, Bina. I rent a place on Washington Square.”

“I’m on Bleecker.”

“Goodness, really? But that’s just on the other side of the square. It’s a very unusual choice for a lawyer of your standing, isn’t it? Oh no!” Margaret laughed. “Please, I beg you don’t tell me again not to judge.”

“My parents would agree with you. They think I should live uptown, nearer my clients, but I see enough of them during the day—though that’s only one of the reasons I live on Bleecker. I guess what I like most about it is that it’s such a mix. Not uptown and not down. Not poor and not smart. There’s all sorts, from writers and artists to families, and I guess there are also some whose morals wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, but it’s a decent place all the same. People look out for each other, but they don’t—” Randolph broke off, looking sheepish.

“They don’t pass judgement?”