“Not quite. It was explained to me that there was a senior level of training available to those who are no longer twenty-two, so I was competing with thirty-five-year-olds, who are mostly in better shape than they have any right to be at their age.”

“How’d you do?” she asked.

“Not terribly well,” Stone admitted. “Oh, I did all right in the courses—near the top of my class, in fact. I thought I might redeem my physical prowess somewhat by agreeing to a timed drive around their defensive driving course, since I had the Aston Martin DB11 available to me.”

“We know how that turned out, don’t we?”

“I am reliably informed that, until I misread that turn by the bridge, I was on my way to a record-setting circuit.”

“Well, there was that turn, wasn’t there?”

“I also have no memory of that turn, or of anything after setting off.”

“Now someone will have to buy Dame Felicity a new motorcar. Her insurance company, I expect.”

“I fear that insurance companies are far too wily to cover automobile racing—even against the clock—in their policies.”

“So you are on the hook for a new Aston Martin?”

“I am, and deservedly so. This afternoon I phoned the London dealership of that marque and ordered her previous DB11 duplicated, for delivery in—well, it was going to be seven months, but when I mentioned her name, that was shortened to two weeks, so she will not long be without transport.”

“How much did that cost you?”

“Don’t ask.”

At that moment their dinner arrived, and they switched from the single malt to a sturdy claret.

They raised their glasses and said “Bon appétit!” together.

“Now,” Stone said. “Your turn.”

“All right,” she said, sampling his Scottish beef and approving. “Born, London, thirty-odd years ago, educated at what you Americans call a ‘private’ school, then Oxford, followed by medical school, followed by a surgical residency, followed by some years as a general surgeon.”

“And why are you here?” he asked.

“I have been on what the medical community here refers to as a locum—that is, replacing another physician while he is on leave. I thought this post might be enlightening, and it has been, in fits and starts.”

“That is a very short history,” Stone said.

“I’m sorry if I bored you.”

“Ever married?”

“Briefly, to another medical student. I came away from that feeling that physicians should never marry—not each other, anyway. You?”

“I am a widower. My wife was murdered several years ago by a former lover. I have a son who is now working in Hollywood as a film director and writer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, but it is my gain.”

—