“I’m a real cannibal, I’m afraid. Hope it won’t offend you, watching me eat.”

“No, of course not,” said Zeno, going out of his way not to make waves. “Is not all one, after all?”

Nick was already piling the aromatic pieces of lamb onto a plate when Zeno started trying to make his plate look respectable with the side effects. He was no stranger to the situation now. When he’d first become a vegetarian he would often eat at home before going out to dinner. Tonight was easy: wild rice, mango chutney, yoghurt with cucumber, pine nuts and raisins. No one would have noticed if Fleur had not announced it.

“What did you mean by that?” asked Nick. He had loaded his portion and was watching Zeno tap-dance with his.

“All is one? Well, everything lives on everything, doesn’t it? Sounds disgusting, I suppose, but it’s a fact.”

“If you say so, old chap.” Nick delicately extracted a chunk of lamb from his curry and popped it into his mouth. He licked his fingertips, but made no move to return to his seat.

Zeno took up his theme again. “This piece of baby lamb you’re chewing, for example. I bet if it had known it was going to become a well set-up smart fellow like yourself, married to a terrific wife like Miranda, it would have leaped into the old stewing pot.”

“Why did you give it up then?” asked Nick, seemingly focused on his next morsel.

“Oh, I liked it, but it didn’t like me. The choice wasn’t philosophical: dicky tum—too much mischief in the Sixties.”

Phyllis had been rather intrigued by the vaguely familiar-looking man with the winning smile, until she heard the “all is one” remark. Then she dismissed him as simply another casualty of the Sixties. She remained seated and was taking her time with the delicious fruit soup, having decided that the best way to cope with the small octopus was to be all sweetness and light. But she was not inviting another close encounter, and planned to wait until Nick returned to his seat before going for the main course. The pale man on her right turned to her and introduced himself. “My name’s Clement. Shall we get some more food?”

“Are you sitting in someone else’s place?” asked Phyllis, indicating the place setting which clearly said ‘The Rose’ in Fleur’s italic hand.

“It’s a nickname,” he said with a smile. “Never was too fond of Clement.”

“The Rose.” Phyllis savoured his very British pronunciation. “It’s a nice word. To tell you the truth, I’ve never much liked Phyllis, but it hasn’t occurred to me to change it.”

“Why ever not? Think of the difference it would make to your life.”

“Did it change yours, then?”