the familiar mixture of friendliness and reserve. She was like an estranged sister. It hadn’t really been all that long: six years. He had last seen her at the funeral, when he could barely speak to her—or to anyone else, for that matter. She had written him a letter—she wanted to keep in touch, she said—but he hadn’t answered. In those days he hadn’t been able to think of anyone else, only of his own pain. That was still true, come to think of it.
She was staring at him, waiting, and he realized he hadn’t answered her question.
“Just visiting,” he said, gesturing toward the thick wooden door he had just closed.
“I meant here in London.”
“Oh, thinking of doing some research. And you?”
“I live here—remember?”
“Yes, of course. My father told me. I meant now.”
“The Hogarth Exhibition.” She turned and tilted her head toward the Royal Academy. “But what’s in there?” she insisted, looking again at the door.
“Not much. The Linnean Society.”
“And what conceivable interest do you have in the Linnean Society?”
She hadn’t changed—she was never one to stop until she got what she wanted.
“Darwin. I’ve gotten interested in Darwin.”
Bridget was staring at him again, with arched eyebrows, and it made him nervous.
“So I thought I’d take a look at the Society. Of course, it’s not where it was when he and Wallace delivered their papers. It’s moved since then—and, well, actually, he didn’t turn up for his paper. Sick, as usual.”
Why was he running on like this? He knew, of course; he felt anxious, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. “Still, they’ve got some good portraits. Here, I’ve got some cards.”
He handed her two four- by six-inch reproductions of the paintings he had just seen. There was Darwin, stooped with the weight of a foolish world on his shoulders, gloomy as Jehovah in his long white beard and dark overcoat. And Wallace, relaxing in a chair next to a painting of a tropical forest. A book depicting a brilliant green butterfly rested on his knee and his eyes beamed behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Hardly Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” she ventured, opening one of the cards. Inside was the reproduction of a centennial brass plaque that read:
C H A R L E S DA RW I N
and ALF R E D RU S S E L WALLAC E
made the first communication
of their views on
T H E O R I G I N O F S P E C I E S
BY NAT U R A L S E L E CT I O N
At a meeting of the Linnean Society
On 1st July 1858
1st July 1958
“Let’s go get a drink,” she said abruptly. “I suspect you need one.” He tried to find an excuse but she had already locked arms and was marching him up Piccadilly, her eyes scanning the street ahead.
“No pub,” he said. “They’re never around when you need one.”
“Which is pretty much all the time with you, as I remember.”
He fancied he heard more and more of her native New Jersey punching through the faint English lilt.
They settled for a small restaurant and he headed for a table by the window where the passersby might provide a distraction. A waitress in a white apron ambled over and he asked for a beer and Bridget ordered a sherry in clipped tones.
“So when exactly was it that you became English?” he asked. “I mean, was there one specific moment when you crossed over the line?”
“Very amusing. If it’s kissing both cheeks you’re referring to, you should know everyone who’s lived here long enough does that.”
“Yeah, but you did it right away. Wasn’t it in the taxi line at Heathrow?”
“It was in the queue, if you must know.”
“I see you haven’t changed—as quick as ever.”
“ You’re the one who apparently hasn’t changed.”
He didn’t answer. Change—if she only knew how much he had changed.
“So, when did this Darwin fascination start?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. I’m still looking around.”
“For what? For what you want to do when you grow up?”
“Something like
She was staring at him, waiting, and he realized he hadn’t answered her question.
“Just visiting,” he said, gesturing toward the thick wooden door he had just closed.
“I meant here in London.”
“Oh, thinking of doing some research. And you?”
“I live here—remember?”
“Yes, of course. My father told me. I meant now.”
“The Hogarth Exhibition.” She turned and tilted her head toward the Royal Academy. “But what’s in there?” she insisted, looking again at the door.
“Not much. The Linnean Society.”
“And what conceivable interest do you have in the Linnean Society?”
She hadn’t changed—she was never one to stop until she got what she wanted.
“Darwin. I’ve gotten interested in Darwin.”
Bridget was staring at him again, with arched eyebrows, and it made him nervous.
“So I thought I’d take a look at the Society. Of course, it’s not where it was when he and Wallace delivered their papers. It’s moved since then—and, well, actually, he didn’t turn up for his paper. Sick, as usual.”
Why was he running on like this? He knew, of course; he felt anxious, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. “Still, they’ve got some good portraits. Here, I’ve got some cards.”
He handed her two four- by six-inch reproductions of the paintings he had just seen. There was Darwin, stooped with the weight of a foolish world on his shoulders, gloomy as Jehovah in his long white beard and dark overcoat. And Wallace, relaxing in a chair next to a painting of a tropical forest. A book depicting a brilliant green butterfly rested on his knee and his eyes beamed behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Hardly Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” she ventured, opening one of the cards. Inside was the reproduction of a centennial brass plaque that read:
C H A R L E S DA RW I N
and ALF R E D RU S S E L WALLAC E
made the first communication
of their views on
T H E O R I G I N O F S P E C I E S
BY NAT U R A L S E L E CT I O N
At a meeting of the Linnean Society
On 1st July 1858
1st July 1958
“Let’s go get a drink,” she said abruptly. “I suspect you need one.” He tried to find an excuse but she had already locked arms and was marching him up Piccadilly, her eyes scanning the street ahead.
“No pub,” he said. “They’re never around when you need one.”
“Which is pretty much all the time with you, as I remember.”
He fancied he heard more and more of her native New Jersey punching through the faint English lilt.
They settled for a small restaurant and he headed for a table by the window where the passersby might provide a distraction. A waitress in a white apron ambled over and he asked for a beer and Bridget ordered a sherry in clipped tones.
“So when exactly was it that you became English?” he asked. “I mean, was there one specific moment when you crossed over the line?”
“Very amusing. If it’s kissing both cheeks you’re referring to, you should know everyone who’s lived here long enough does that.”
“Yeah, but you did it right away. Wasn’t it in the taxi line at Heathrow?”
“It was in the queue, if you must know.”
“I see you haven’t changed—as quick as ever.”
“ You’re the one who apparently hasn’t changed.”
He didn’t answer. Change—if she only knew how much he had changed.
“So, when did this Darwin fascination start?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. I’m still looking around.”
“For what? For what you want to do when you grow up?”
“Something like
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