“England? I thought you were coming back to New York from Wichita.”

“I did, but my stepfather has had a heart attack and surgery, so I came to be with my mother.” He gave her the telephone number. “Best to reach me on my cell, though.”

“Of course. How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know—a week or ten days, I suppose. I have some business to take care of here. Everything all right there?”

“I think so, but when I came in this morning I noticed that my office wasn’t quite the way I left it.”

“It’s the hotel maids,” he said. “They come in every day, and they move things around.”

“Ah, I should have thought of that. Is there anything I can do for you here?”

“I don’t think so. You can pay the bills as they come in. E-mail me anything you’re uncertain about for approval.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll let you know when I have a return date. Oh, I hired the driver from the chauffeur service I’ve been using. His name is Oliver Mann. Please put him on the payroll at seventy-five thousand a year, with effect from yesterday.”

“Will do.”

He gave her Oliver’s phone number. “You can call him for his Social Security number and address, et cetera. If you need to run any errands, Oliver will drive you. He’ll be at the apartment every day to help you, should you need him.”

“Grand.”

“I have to go now. Call me, if you have any questions.”

“I will. Goodbye.” They both hung up.

—

BUTCH WAS HAVING an idle moment in the shoe department when his cell rang.

“It’s me,” Curly said.

“What’s up?”

“My ex-lawyer friend is here, and I need some information for the incorporation papers. What do you want to call it?”

“How about Internet Arts?”

“Sounds good.”

“Rent a post office box in that name, and have some stationery printed. I’ve already arranged for a website, internetarts-dot-com, but there’s nothing on it yet. Put that on the stationery, and have some cards printed for both of us. Change the pounds we took to dollars and use that for expenses. Oh, and put this motto on the stationery—‘Fine art at your fingertips.’”

“How much should I have printed?”

“Not much, we have only one client—customer. Gotta run.” He hung up.

—

LAURENCE SAT DOWN for lunch on the terrace with his stepfather; his mother and Theresa had gone to the village to shop for dinner.

“I’ve accepted an offer from my partners for the agency,” Derek said.

“Was it what you wanted?”

“Nearly. I also spoke with a friend in real estate who’s familiar with our properties. He says I should ask eight million and take seven for this place.”

“How about Wilton Crescent?”