She didn’t tell him it was a little more than that. She felt she was in love. But Sophie had only just started to date Hugh, and she had looked foolish enough for one day.

“And then?”

Sophie shrugged. “Isn’t that everything? I’ll find a place to live, I suppose.”

“You will need to start some kind of business,” Fr. Sabin said. He smiled at her with his wonky teeth. “You enjoy that, Sophie, and you are good at it. I would not recommend another stint as a housewife.”

Tom Massot stretched behind his desk and tried to enjoy it. This was victory, he thought, staring out of the window. So why was he so restless?

Paris was quite brilliant today; the city had a permanent magic, but this morning, with the first chill of autumn hovering under the day’s crisp sunlight, there was an extra freshness that was welcome after the muggy days of August. In the street outside, his connoisseur’s eye picked out the French women in their chic little outfits, relishing the change of weather. The men, meanwhile, moved with purpose, refreshed after the languor of summer, wanting to get down to business.

An ideal time to be a chief executive, then.

He spun on the chair his mother had occupied and examined the office. It had been redecorated according to Tom’s wishes; that much, at least, they had done, he thought . . . the feminine flowers and soft throws had gone, and he had selected dark woods and scarlet leather, the preferred choice, as he remembered, of his father in the billiard room back home. It was something he had held on to as the memories of Papa faded. He was fiercely proud to have the office as he imagined Pierre would have wished it. And like his father, Tom cared about image; it mattered very much to him to put his stamp on the place. He had had certain magazine articles spread out in front of him. MASSOT IN CHARGE, said one. THE SON RISING, said another. Of course, those were not the only articles that had appeared. The PR people—Judy—tried to keep some of the others from him. He’d angrily told her that he wanted to see everything. And she’d argued with him!

“Judy, in the office I am your superior,” Tom had shouted. He was tempted to add, “and out of the office, too,” but held back. Surely she would already feel the social gulf between them, and he didn’t want to rub it in.

“But honey.” Judy had lowered her voice, but she was looking at him sharply with those bold eyes. They stirred him, and he felt a touch less angry. Tom preferred challenging women—such as Judy, or . . . Polly . . .

Whatever. Polly was the past. Judy was far more stylish, anyway.

“But honey—it’s only going to upset you.”