“And do you know, I can’t prove it, but I believe that girl followed me home to Brooklyn. Because the next Monday morning, I saw her talking to the manager, and at noon that day he fired me. For being Jewish.”

The incident had changed her mother’s life. “After that,” she’d declare, “I said to myself, enough of the goyim. And I went back to my religion.” A year later, she’d married Daniel Adler.

These memories were soon interrupted, however, by Michael and Nathan arriving for their breakfast. Sarah helped her mother dish up, while her father continued his piano playing downstairs.

After her brothers went out, Sarah and her mother tidied up the kitchen for a while.

“So,” her mother said, when they had put everything away, “you’re still happy in the apartment you have?”

Her mother had not been too pleased about her move to the city, but the apartment had been a stroke of luck. The brother of one of her father’s patients owned the apartment in Greenwich Village. He was going to California for a year or two, he wasn’t sure for how long. On condition that she would vacate at once if he needed it back, he’d been glad to rent it for a very modest amount to a family his brother assured him he could trust. So Sarah had a nice little one-bedroom place where she could live, even on the tiny salary the gallery paid her.

“It’s fine,” she said, “and I love my job.”

“Will you be coming home next weekend?”

“I think so. Why?”

“You remember I told you about Adele Cohen’s grandson. The boy who went to Harvard? The one that’s a doctor now?”

“The one who went to Philadelphia?”

“Yes, but he has a position in New York now. He’s just moving there. And he’s coming out to see his grandmother next weekend. I believe he’s very nice.”

“You’ve never met him.”

“If he’s Adele’s grandson, I’m sure he’s very nice.”

“How old is he?”

“Adele says he’ll be thirty next year. And he’s very interested in art. He bought a painting.”

“You know this?”

“Adele told me. She thinks he’s bought several.”

“What sort of paintings?”

“How should I know? They’re paintings.”

“We should marry.”

“You could meet him.”

“Does he have money?”

“He’s a doctor.” Her mother paused as if to indicate that this should be enough. “When his father married Adele’s daughter, he was an accountant. But he didn’t like accounting, so he set up a business selling heaters for houses. He sells air conditioning too. All over New Jersey. Adele says he’s done very well.”

So, Adele’s grandson had money. Sarah smiled. She could imagine her mother and Adele arranging all this. And why should she complain? Perhaps he would be perfect.

“I’ll meet him,” she promised.

As she returned from Brooklyn late that afternoon, however, it was not the doctor who occupied her thoughts in the subway. It was Charlie Master.