After he sat next to Alice, he glanced around the half-full ballroom, nodding discreetly to a woman standing in a group a short distance away. “That’s Christina Foyle,” he said in a hushed tone. She was of average height and build with light-brown hair that had been teased into a shape both higher and fuller than seemed necessary for a lunchtime function. Even from where they sat, he could see her ears and neck glistening with diamonds—too many, in fact, and he could tell that Alice didn’t approve either.

She looked at her watch again, gripping her wrist as though there was somewhere else she needed to be.

“Mixed crowd,” he said, leaning closer and catching the light floral scent of her perfume.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said, glancing around. “Who do you think they are—politicians, industry leaders, literary aficionados?”

“All of the above,” he replied, gazing more intently at the assembled men and women, the servicemen and civilians.

The next time he looked at Alice, her chin was tilted up at him, an expression of curiosity on her face. “I’ve always wondered what it’s really like, New York. Not the version they show off for visitors, but the real one that you live in.”

“There are writers who could do it justice far better than me.”

“You could try.”

“Wine?” he asked, as a waiter appeared at their side. She shook her head, and Theo nodded toward his glass, which the waiter filled as he talked. “It’s an incredible city—I mean, London is beautiful, but New York, well, there’s an energy to it. Even walking the few blocks to work is invigorating. And visiting the dockyards when one of the ships is coming in—that’s positively euphoric.” He smiled. “Really, though, it’s spectacular, especially when the dockworkers and their families are all lined up on the quay, waving flags and streamers. It’s the gateway to America, but it feels like the center of the world.”

“It looks that way in photos too.”

“Maybe you’ll visit one day.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” she said dismissively. “Tell me about where you live.”

“It’s all right if you don’t mind traffic jams. It’s on the west side. Manhattan is made up of hundreds of neighborhoods, so you don’t need to go far to find a grocery store or a restaurant.”

“Sounds convenient.”

“It’s more than that. They’re like villages—you find your tribe, and you stick to it.”

“I like the sound of that,” she said, playing with the stem of her empty glass.

“There’s an area known as Book Row, where all the bookstores are, dozens of them. It’s like Charing Cross Road, but much, much bigger. It would take you a week to work your way around them. It’s an enclave for booksellers and book lovers.”