The bread was warm from the oven. Bridie had made it with bicarbonate instead of yeast and it was a revelation to me.

Philip had put down his small drawing notebook and pencil and done as I suggested. “I’m transported,” he said with his mouth full.

He didn’t appear to have brushed his hair since we last met, and the brindled chestnut sweater had a row of small dark oily stains along the hem, each with a smudge of a different color in the center. He cleaned his brushes on his clothes. How profligate. Such good quality wool, and he’d wrecked it. I shook my head in sorrow. He followed my eyes and grinned.

“I know. I’m a disgrace.”

“Why don’t you wear a . . .” Une blouse, what did they call it. “A tunic for painting?”

“A smock? Like a proper artist, you mean?” He popped another piece of bread into his mouth.

“Aren’t you a proper artist?” I said, smiling.

“Not yet.”

“When will you be?” asked his mother.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. “When I do something I still like after a year. Maybe then.”

The house was tranquil. The only noise that penetrated was that made by tractors as they passed on their way to the fields. The crumpled pages of Le Figaro, scarred with black headlines about the French fighting in Vietnam, belonged in a sorrier, darker realm.

“And how is your mother getting used to Nice, my dear?” Bridie asked.

“Quite well, considering.” I poured some of the green-gold oil onto my piece of bread. “They took every stick of furniture with them, so when she closes the blinds she can pretty much pretend she’s still in Alexandria. Even when she opens them she sees a promenade with palm trees.” The oil was good: it should satisfy Maman. “She’s been complaining about the sun, of course,” I went on. “It goes down on the right now, you see, instead of the left. She can’t get used to it. But since she’s found a hairdresser who understands her hair, she hasn’t mentioned the sun. So all is well.”

“Goodness, she’s lucky!” Bridie patted her own brisk upstanding crop. “I doubt I’ve ever found a hairdresser who understood my hair!” She pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “Well, I’m for the bus. It’s market day in Waltham. Now don’t make her sit for too long, Philip,” she said, buttoning her coat. “It’s surprisingly tiring,” she told me. “And he gets lost in what he’s doing. I’ll see you later, if you haven’t gone.”

We both said, “Okay.” Like young people.

—

The front door closed behind her and there was a moment of silence. I screwed the cap back onto the olive oil. The can really was beautiful, the bright blue blazing against the yellow label.