Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. ‘Sir?’ Hilary threw a brief glance at Trodger, and quickly returned his intent gaze to the Frenchman, who had halted once more, and stood as if thinking deeply. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. There was—a service. . . There was a long silence between them. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. Let me have a word with him, and you may take all the money.
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