“I was in the war,” Rutledge said simply. “I have seen death before.”

After a moment Russell nodded. “I’m at The Marlborough. They do a decent roast lamb with mint sauce. I can enjoy the sauce still.”

The Marlborough would not have been Rutledge’s choice. He had gone there last with Meredith Channing. It wasn’t a memory he cared to revisit. But he had a feeling that if he suggested another restaurant, he could well lose Wyatt Russell.

The hotel was not very far away, but Rutledge drove them there, and Russell sat beside him in silence. He got out of the motorcar with some difficulty, but Rutledge wisely stayed where he was, offering no assistance.

Inside, Reception was busy, but the dining room was still mostly empty, since it was early for a meal.

They were conducted to a table in a corner, and Russell sat down on the damask upholstered chair with a sigh of relief.

“I should take a cushion with me these days. Sitting on wood has become a trial for me. Will you have something to drink? It’s my treat, because I shall be able then to set the rules.”

“As you wish. I’ll have a whisky.” Hoping to loosen Russell’s tongue…

Russell nodded, gave the order for two, and looked around. “I don’t know half these people. Before the war, I could have put a name to most of them.”

“In London often, then, were you?”

“I was young, unmarried, just down from Cambridge. Full of myself. Full of the future. In love. Essex was dull, boring. London was busy, exciting. If I even thought about it, life seemed to stretch ahead in an endless golden haze, and I expected to be happy forever. Or at least, looking back on 1914, that’s how I recall it now. It may not have been such a blissfully happy time, but it does no harm to think so. Were you in London then?”