Possibly to make fun of me in some obscure way, Julian remembered my parents’ names and used them often. “Have you spoken to Peggy recently?” he’d say, or: “How’s Joe?” His were called Miles and Florence. I found the comparison illuminating, but he didn’t. For Brits, class was like humility: you only had it as long as you denied it. On the escalator down the next morning I pictured his childhood home in Cambridgeshire. Tall, I thought, and empty: houses were like their owners. (I felt cruel, then decided he’d laugh. This reminded methat nothing I said could hurt him.) Although I was not someone Julian would bring to meet Florence , I imagined her having me for dinner, just the two of us. I’d mispronounce “gnocchi” and she’d avoid saying it all evening so as not to embarrass me. I would meet her eye and think: in this way I could strip you of every word you know.