‘Brent? Oh sure, he had nine or ten books under his belt. All successful if not overly erudite. Good, exciting reading. He was about thirty-sixish. Jojo was a kid then. Brent picked him up. He was a rent boy from a club in Paris on rue de Cayenne called Le Poisson d’Avril. Run by a gentleman from the Argentine with the proud name of Solomon Aronovich, I kid you not. I do not know him, I have never met him, he is fond of Brent, has been here often. I don’t ask questions, as I told you. You do, I do not. I just heard his name here and there, dropped like crumbs at table, you know? And if you have more questions to ask, William dear, you had better get them all marshalled for tomorrow, because they pack up the house and leave for Paris on Monday. Work here is over until July.’

I emptied my glass. Set it down, got up. The Dalmatian instantly raised his head in inquiry, settled again. ‘God. I have asked so many questions. Sorry. It must have been hell for you, over the years. I mean, not to ask?’

She laughed, a soft deer-bark sort of sound. ‘Hellish!’ she said.

At the car, standing in the soft light of the lamp in the window, she trod her cigarette butt into the tiles of the terrace.

‘Christ!’ she said. ‘What a bloody world we live in. Everyone gets hurt, we all get damaged. Who is there left to wound now, for God’s sake?’

‘A wife. A devoted wife. And some kind of a child.’

She was silent, standing looking into the dark. Far away the frogs were chattering in a crescendo. ‘Yes. It goes on. I had almost forgotten that. The pain goes on. It’s a shitty world, ours.’

‘Thank you for your care and attention this evening. Kinder than kind you have been.’

‘You are very welcome. Nothing to it. I enjoy company sometimes. I very seldom go up the hill there, as you know. When they go to Paris, and if you are around, drop by? There is plenty left in the bottle.’

She raised one hand in farewell, called the dog, snuffling excitedly in some bushes, and started for the gates.

I eased down the drive ahead of her, turned left at the gates, heard the gates clang and rattle behind me, headed for Bargemon and the Maison Blanche.

A squabble of magpies had gathered on the lawn below the ugly balustrade of L’Hermitage, but the instant that Millie arrived, bracelets clattering, a little out of breath, hastily smoothing the dun-coloured hair which had fluffed up like a hedgehog in her hurry from wherever she had been, they spread their wings and, still bickering, scattered up into the olives.