“Can Lucy and I go out for a walk?” Michelle interrupted the violin conversation petulantly. “What the hell. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. ‘But then again, possibly not. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake.
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