She nodded. He tried to find something more interesting than a lighthouse, and came on an article—a puff—for a proposed lunatic asylum to be constructed in the form of a saltire in one of the city’s parks. The design was intended to allow a single warden to stand at the centre of the building and see into all its wings, the wings themselves to be divided according to sex, social class and degree of insanity. He read the piece out in a mildly satirical voice, though gave it up when the waiter returned, not wishing to appear to be slighting the city’s ambitions for itself. He moved on to the London paper, started with a letter about the king’s jubilee in October, then some news about Captain Barclay’s walking challenge (he seemed likely to win his bet), and finally, an editorial concerning the Duke of York’s former mistress, Mrs. Clarke, who was threatening fresh revelations about the sale of army commissions.

“Did you buy yours?” asked Emily.

“Hmm?”

“Your commission. Did you buy it?”

“Of course.”

“How much did it cost you?”

He could see, over her shoulders, a table of young officers, infantry men in high spirits, their coats still as they had come from the tailors, a red undimmed.

“It cost me the value of four good fields. That and some ready money from my inheritance.”

She nodded. She seemed satisfied with this. He hoped she would let the matter drop. The last thing he wanted was to catch the attention of the young men, to have them pull up their chairs, find himself in the role of “one who knows,” fending off good-natured enquiries with evasions, lies.

“I have something written down,” she said, “about military men. About the military. I will read it to you later.”