“That’s okay, whenever you’re ready. I was just headin’ out for something to eat. It’s still lunchtime in New York, and to be honest with you, the journey knocked me about more than I thought it would.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it can be quite exhausting; like a seasickness too.”

His head wasn’t spinning anymore, but he was having trouble fending off the current wave of sleepiness.

“That sounds about right. My fiancée said I should eat when I’m tired, so I was gonna have an early dinner. Do you want to join me?”

“Thank you, but I’ve got a lot to get through.” She glanced at the stacks of documents and manuscripts on her desk, completely concealing the wooden surface alongside pots of pens, stock images and paper samples. She gave him a thin smile before turning her attention back to what she’d been working on.

“What are you doing?” he asked casually.

“Just another rejection letter,” she said without looking up.

“Tough, although I can imagine that you let them down gently.”

“Is there ever a way of being let down gently?” she said without a hint of innuendo as she glanced up at him.

He smiled. “I don’t know, why don’t you try me?”

She hesitated, then she put on a clipped upper-class British accent and read the letter aloud. “ ‘Dear Miss Carmichael, I am sorry that we are not able to publish your collected poems. As delightful as these volumes of verse about woodland creatures are, they don’t hold much relevance for our readers under the current conditions of war. In addition, wartime exigencies leave us very little opportunity to publish new authors.’ ”

“That’s very gentle, and I can see why you don’t have any time to come out,” he said, still leaning against the doorframe.

Ursula shrugged. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Of course. Care to point me in the right direction?”

The office had large sash windows, the astragal bars dividing up a sky of low gray clouds that momentarily threw the room into darkness.

“All right, I’ll show you,” she said, relenting. “It’s probably time I called it a day anyway.”

He helped her on with her coat, a brown trench that could have come straight off the front line its edges were so grimy and frayed, the hem spattered with mud. It seemed British women were quite a contrast to those of New York, and Ursula was no exception, her thick tweed trousers unlike anything he’d seen in Virginia’s wardrobe.

“Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it. I’ve heard your London cafés can be kinda hit-or-miss.” He followed her down the staircase and through the lobby.