Day by day she had seen his interest growing. And when it had culminated that sensuous afternoon, at the end of the garden, she thought he was hers. Another moment and they would have kissed. It would have been enough to hold him. Perhaps they might have made love at Fontainebleau. It would have been difficult. They might have gone for a walk in the forest and kissed more passionately, at least. And then, another day or two, and once back in Paris, anything could have been arranged.

Just another moment, if Claire had not arrived.

But the next day, something had happened. He seemed suddenly to draw back. At least, he made no further move. There were two occasions when they found themselves alone in the house, once in the salon, once in the hall, but he did not come close either time. She wondered why. What had happened? Did he suddenly find her unattractive? Did she seem old? Was he afraid?

Frank was going to take the train back to Paris a day before the family left, and Marc said he’d drive him to the station. While Frank was waiting by Marc’s car in the courtyard, Marie had come out and stood with him. They were almost as close as they had been in the garden, and she looked up at him and smiled, and he smiled too. But there was nothing else. Nothing at all.

“You said the other day that you’d never been to the Jardin des Plantes,” she said.

“I haven’t.”

“This is a good time of year to go there. It’s rather dull in winter. Telephone me, and I’ll take you there.”

“Thank you. I will.”

A week passed. Then another. But he had not called.

Claire saw him. Marie and Marc were talking in the office one day when Claire put her head around the door and asked her uncle if he’d ever heard of an artist called Chagall. He hadn’t and asked her why.

“He may be someone to watch. I met him the other night, in a crowd of people up at Montmartre.”

“Was anyone there that I do know?” Marc inquired.

“Hemingway.”

“Was Frank Hadley there?” asked Marie.

“Yes. I said hello, but I hardly spoke to him. He and Hemingway were arguing about something or other.”

Marie said nothing. Perhaps she should call him herself. Perhaps not. She hadn’t heard a word from Roland de Cygne yet, either, though he was sure to be back in Paris by now.

She was feeling rather deserted when, a few days later, Claire came into her office and asked if Frank had got through to her on the telephone.

“He was trying to reach you, but he got me instead. He said you’d offered to take him to the Jardin des Plantes. Why don’t we all go this Saturday?”

“Ah,” said Marie, and shrugged. “If you like.”