Because she has turned around, pulling her bare sunburned arm back into the car, adjusting the windshield visor against the strong sun, adjusting her cotton dress with the willow basket in her shrinking lap, Sylvia misses the expression of unqualified, aghast relief that slackens the tight features of her hostess, now joined by Bill, as they wave the car off down the road, back the way it came, west and north across Central France on the Route Mauve, past the lavender fields of the Quercy, the wheat fields of Orléans rolling green to Chartres, the cathedral bristling against the skyline, toward the sandy shore of Normandy, to the sherbet-colored bungalows and beachcombing invalids of Berck-Plage, and the channel ferry home.

Sylvia unties the linen napkin that Dido has sacrificed to secure the makings of the picnic she’s prepared. As Ted navigates cautiously down the hill’s decline, steering in low gear past the potholes, tires sliding here and there on the broken stone, Sylvia picks through their bounty with her slim, balletic fingers.

“Look, Ted, it’s a feast—” Sylvia gloats, not bothering to see if Ted is, in fact, looking, which he is not, just listening, quiet, his eyes on the road. “Fresh peaches, a crock of pâté from the Spanish duchess who came for dinner, the one with the château near here—duck rillettes, a loaf of that good bread, a little Cabeçou cheese wrapped in its leaf, roasted lamb from last night, green walnuts, olives, a bunch of radishes, marrons glacés, a cherry clafoutis sprinkled with crystal sugar, and plum eau de vie.” She holds up the slender glass bottle of clear liquid, its cork coated with wax, catching the moted light slanting through the windshield. “This should keep me till Limoges.”

“Maybe you’ll want to rest while it’s still cool,” Ted says.

“I feel like a million dollars,” Sylvia says, greedily surveying the cornucopia of dainties. “Dido likes to kill you with kindness, and I’m happy to oblige. This week has been just what I needed.” Ted makes no comment as he drives past the hedges of sloe and the knotty walnut trees flanking the lane, the high shelf of the unexplored causse at their backs. The shuttered windows and red-tiled roofs of the village come into view ahead; a sheep bell clanks in the ripening air. Sylvia reaches into the basket for a twisted paper filled with wrinkled black olives. “I think we really ought to consider giving up your Maugham Prize, Ponter. I would hate to lose the money, but I don’t want to go traipsing all over Italy. It’s too much trouble.”

“But that’s why we bought the car,” Ted says, his voice weary though it is only eleven o’clock. Already the sun is high, the summer light unmasking every leaf and stone. He lowers his visor against the glare.