As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. It is bad policy. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. “Your house is so huge. ‘She wants me to marry her.
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