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It was about seven o’clock when the maroon Bentley glided to a stop in front of my apartment building. “It was a marvelous day, wasn’t it?” Victoria said. “But I’m dead tired.”

We were all dead tired. And comfortable enough with each other to admit it, thereby eliminating any halfhearted suggestion about going on to dinner. But tomorrow was another day, and Victoria, the Scarlett O’Hara of the group, always planning something, came up with an idea.

“I’ve heard of an absolutely fantastic production of Pride and Prejudice going on in London this month.” A theater company in town, she told us, was presenting an adaptation of Jane Austen’s book in various historic houses around London. “It will be like watching the Bennets in their own drawing room,” Victoria said.

The idea appealed to all of us immediately. It was just a matter of finding out when and where the performances were scheduled, a task Victoria eagerly accepted.

Two days later, she called to ask if the following Thursday suited me. It did. “We’re going to have a light supper over on Walton Street before the play,” Victoria said, referring to a charming street tucked away behind the Brompton Road just near my flat.

“That sounds lovely,” I told her, parroting the phrase that by now was etched into my brain.

The performance of Pride and Prejudice took place at an historic house near Greenwich Park in the southeast section of London. Victoria had been right; listening to the drawing-room conversations between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in such a setting engaged the imagination in ways not possible in a regular theater. The production was delightful and I was thoroughly enjoying myself when, near the end of the play, a sharp, throbbing headache appeared. Ten minutes later, a queasy feeling began to come and go.

The cause of my distress puzzled me. I’d felt fine at dinner and had not eaten or drunk anything likely to account for my symptoms. I tried to concentrate on the play, telling myself the feelings would pass. But they didn’t. Later, when it was suggested we have a drink, I said nothing to the others about feeling ill, saying instead I was way behind in my letter-writing and would pass on the drink.

It was a wise decision. By the time I unlocked the door to my flat, the headache was so bad I could barely see. I turned on one small light in the foyer—any light brighter than that made me feel dizzy—and managed, just, to undress myself, take some aspirin, and crawl into bed. Automatically, I turned on the radio on the nightstand. It had become a habit to fall asleep listening to the “chat” shows that ran throughout the night on London radio. And, I figured, if ever I needed someone to help get me through the night, this was it.

I slept fitfully, waking every hour or so to the sound of disconnected bits of conversation coming from the radio. Pruning of flowering shrubs is best done after the blooming season.… Your puppy should be spayed at eight months.… Having sexual relations twice a week is not unusual for couples in their seventies.… In between, I dreamed. Jumbled-up, nonsense dreams that patched together bits and pieces of my life, past and present, into surreal vignettes.

When I heard a phone ringing I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or if I was awake. Slowly, though, I realized it wasn’t part of a dream; someone really was on the other end of the line, trying to reach me. But did I have the strength to answer it? With great effort I rolled over in the direction of the night table and picked up the receiver.

It was Angela. She was calling to say, in a voice shot through with wry amusement, that I should be on my guard, that Sarah and Victoria had discussed dueling schemes after dropping me off the night before. “Sarah wants to go to Hidcote Gardens and Victoria’s keen for Bath. What do you think?”

I tried to sound as normal as possible, telling Angela I was a little under the weather and would have to take a rain check. But my voice, so weak that it was almost unintelligible,