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gave him a whole quid,” Silk said.
    â€œHe seemed to like it. Now then: half the guests at a wedding reception don’t know the other half. Fact.”
    â€œBesides, we’re war heroes,” Silk said. “They wouldn’t dare throw us out.”
    â€œDamn right.”
    They strolled into the reception, smiling modestly and discussing the weather. Nobody paid them any attention. The happy couple had ceased receiving guests; now everyone was drinking and talking. The average age looked to be over forty. “This is more like a wake than a wedding,” Langham said. But there were waiters with champagne. They each drank three glasses while they wandered through the crowd. “Bloody good fizz,” Silk said. “I can hear music.”
    A small band was in the next room, playing a foxtrot. “Ah! Popsies,” Langham said. “Bags me the long-legged blond.” But the girl he was soon dancing with was a trim brunette with a fragile face that would bust a bishop’s gaiters.
    â€œI don’t remember seeing you at the church,” she said.
    â€œI was thinking the same about you. How could I have possibly overlooked this stunning creature, I thought.”
    â€œNot very easily. After all, I was a bridesmaid.”
    â€œOf course you were. And I was at thirty thousand feet, so I missed the whole show. My loss.”
    â€œYou mean you were flying?” Her look of admiration made his journey worthwhile. “What do you fly?”
    â€œSpitfire. Nice little bus. Climbs like a lift.”
    â€œAh.” For an instant she was breathless. In 1939 a Spitfire pilot was the most exciting and romantic partner a girl could want. Here was a man in charge of the deadliest yet the most beautiful fighter in the world. Every day he soared into the blue at speeds beyond imagination, and did it in defense of his country. She had danced with film stars, Olympic athletes, the sons of dukes. None was touched with the glory of a Spitfire pilot. What’s more, this man was good-looking. And modest. And funny.
    â€œHow fast can you fly?” she said.
    â€œCan’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Official secret.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œFast enough to catch any Hun who’s foolish enough to show his ugly face.”
    The music stopped and they did not release each other. “I won’t letgo till it thunders,” she said, which made him laugh. The band began again. “I know this one,” he said. “It’s called ‘Embraceable You.’” He hummed a few bars. They were dancing more closely now, so closely that she could gaze at the wings on his tunic without betraying her fascination. “You have a wonderfully masculine fragrance,” she said. “Is that from your Spitfire?”
    â€œIt’s more likely to be from my Bentley.” He felt good about owning a Bentley. “With perhaps just a hint of spaniel.” What was a Spitfire pilot without a spaniel at his heels?
    The dance ended. “I hear thunder,” she said, and let go of his hand. “Look … I’ve seen too much of these people and not nearly enough of you. That’s a shocking thing to say, and it isn’t at all the way I was brought up to behave, but I don’t care. So will you walk me home? I simply must get out of this dress. Damn. That’s not what I meant.”
    â€œMy arm is yours.”
    He walked her to the top of Piccadilly. She had an airy apartment in Albany, furnished in rich, soft, countryside colors. Her name was Zoë Herrick. “A cross between a haddock and a herring,” she said. “James the First is said to have invented it for one of his favorites because the boy was neither one thing nor the other, so the king said. Later on the lad got a knighthood, so he can’t have been a complete failure. Actually I’m Zoë Herrick Herrick. No hyphen. Sounds like a hiccup. There’s some absurd family