He thought he knew the answer to that question. Rowland, who, in the workplace, was curiously indifferent to gender, was more likely than Max to send a woman to a battle zone; but Rowland confronted with Lamartine’s demands was another matter. He would not have liked pressure of that kind, and—had he suspected collusion—neither Lamartine nor Gini would ever have worked for him again.

In which case, Max thought with a return of self-confidence, Rowland’s scruples would have lost him first-class photographs and first-class reporting. One of Rowland’s little problems, he told himself, was a certain moral inflexibility, a refusal to compromise. To recall that his gifted friend had an Achilles’ heel restored Max’s humor at once. He rose.

“Anyway,” he said, “for good or ill, that’s what happened. I thought you should know, but all this is in confidence, needless to say. Gini thinks she won that assignment on her own merits alone, and if she discovered what Lamartine had done, if she even knew I had a private meeting with him—all hell would break loose. So not one word to her.”

“Of course.” Rowland also rose. “Trappist silence. You can rely on me. You probably made the right decision, from a professional point of view. Except—” He paused in the doorway. “Were there repercussions of a more personal kind? Why didn’t Lamartine come back from Bosnia with her? Wasn’t that the deal?”

“Yes. It was.” Max, who had expected Rowland to pick up on this, gave him an anxious look. “Then Lamartine suggested he stay on, and I agreed. I assumed that was purely a work decision. Now I’m not so sure. I get the feeling they may have quarreled, even split up—though I gather Gini’s admitted nothing to Lindsay. And I was shocked when I saw her tonight. She looks ill. Even shell-shocked, wouldn’t you say?”

“Her manner’s odd, certainly. I’m reserving judgment.”

“That’s unusual, for you.”

Rowland made no reply to this comment. He opened the door to the landing.

“I just hope I’m wrong, that’s all,” Max continued, glancing in the direction of Gini’s room. He lowered his voice. “I like Lamartine. I like her. If anything has gone wrong between them, I’d feel partly to blame.”

“Not your responsibility, Max,” Rowland said, his manner suddenly brisk. He gave Max a smile of sudden warmth, then headed off to his room down the corridor, leaving Max to wonder: how exactly would Rowland have dealt with Lamartine? He would ask him over the course of the weekend, Max resolved, but as it happened, the weekend took an unexpected turn, so the question was neither answered nor asked.

Downstairs, Lindsay was sitting alone, staring thoughtfully into the fire, when Danny toddled into the room, looking anxious, and clutching a painting of a blue bristly animal.

“Where’s Rowland?” he said.

“Upstairs, I think, Danny. He and your daddy went up to wash and change.”

“Look.” He flourished the picture. “Dog. I made it for Rowland.”

“It’s a magnificent dog, Danny. I like it very much.”