They dined at Michaud’s. While Genevieve ate her oysters, her head tipped right back, she could almost feel Druscilla staring bug-eyed at her long, white neck.

“How can you swallow them whole like that?” asked Druscilla. “Doesn’t it make you want to gag?”

“I love oysters,” said Genevieve. “It’s like swallowing a whole ocean.”

“Foul, slimy things.” With a shudder, Mrs. Fanshaw returned to her “bien-cuit” steak and began prattling about her pugs (she had eight, apparently; two had won prizes).

Robert and Charles had been deep in conversation ever since they’d sat down, but now Robert broke off to ask, “Say, honey, is that Joyce over there? Over by the wall?”

“Joyce?” said Charles. “Who’s she?”

“He’s talking about James Joyce,” Genevieve said quietly. “That’s him with the round spectacles and the mustache. The two women are his wife and daughter. They eat here practically every day.”

“Oh, my! The famous writer!” Druscilla twisted round to gawp in a manner so obvious that Genevieve cringed.

At that moment Joyce was tasting some wine, rolling it around his glass and sniffing it while the waiter fawned. He and his wife were speaking Italian together. The dark-haired daughter was hiding behind a curtain of hair.

I wish I was sitting with them, Genevieve thought to herself.

“Quit staring, Drusy,” said Charles. “So the man wrote a big fat book. So what? They’re just a family eating dinner.”

“I couldn’t get on with Ulysses.” Robert’s chest was all puffed out, his manner puffed up. “Everyone says they’ve read it, but I bet almost nobody actually has. If you ask me, it’s utterly incomprehensible.”

“You’re talking about the greatest book of this century.” Genevieve looked longingly over at the Joyces.

“Come on,” said Robert. “You haven’t read it any more than I have.”

“Haven’t I?” But she couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Well, I do declare!” said Druscilla. “I had better buy a copy. Though whether I’ll read it or just press flowers between the pages remains to be seen.”

“I should think it would press flowers very nicely.” Robert nudged Charles in the ribs and they both started laughing.

Genevieve shook her head and muttered to herself.

“What was that, honey?” Robert turned back to Charles. “My wife is a poet, don’t you know.”

“Can’t she find a more useful pastime?”

“Oh, it has its uses.” Robert’s face was flushed with alcohol and merriment.

“Like what, for example?”

“Well, occasionally we run out of paper for the fire,” said Robert—and the two of them were off again.

“Pay no attention.” Druscilla put a hand on Genevieve’s arm. “Men!”

But Genevieve had already stopped listening. She was thinking about Violet de Frémont. She could see her walking around Zachari’s workroom. Touching things.