Gregoire had told her he was a Polish immigrant. She hoped fervently his background of poverty had nothing to do with it.

But it most likely had, of course. Her own middle-class origins—Katherine had never let her forget them.

“It is very beautiful,” Gregoire said, “but perhaps we should go somewhere else. We are near the village of St.-Aude, I believe they have a pleasant fish restaurant there. . . .”

Sophie looked at him with dismay. “You don’t want to see my home?”

He sighed. “Don’t you see? It is because it is your home.”

She tensed. Weeks of spending almost every moment in his company, and Gregoire, who made her feel so womanly, so alive, had refused to be drawn on his feelings. He complimented her constantly; he sent her flowers; he would interrupt her as she tried to go through Massot papers, interrupt her all the time, with jokes and pleas to take tea with him.

But he was shy, and would not declare his love, or anything except a wish to be her friend. And Sophie could not seem to draw him out.

Was he about to say something at last?

“What do you mean?” she asked gingerly.

He gave a laugh that sounded a little hollow. “Sophie, you have seen my place.”

“Four times.” He had invited her for three dinners and once, a late breakfast, when he declared he couldn’t stand to see her poring over “those dull figures” for one more minute. “It’s a lovely house,” Sophie added, encouragingly.

Gregoire lived in a brand-new townhouse on boulevard la Reine—a chic brick building with skylights and a courtyard garden, Japanese appliances in the kitchen, and its own cinema room. It certainly cost over a million euros, and he had a collection of twentieth-century sculpture and paintings that was probably worth as much again, Sophie guessed, even though she herself hated modern art.

“It suits me very well. But it is hardly like this. When I see something so beautiful . . .” and he paused meaningfully, so she couldn’t be sure if he meant her or the house, “it reminds me only that I am not worthy.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sophie laughed. She struggled to make Gregoire feel more at ease. “Do you know the story of my background?”

“No,” he said in a polite way that she knew meant yes.

“Well then,” she said, answering what he hadn’t said, “you know that my father owned a local newspaper in Tunbridge Wells and my mother was a kindergarten teacher.”

Lazard smiled at her. “You are very kind.”

“But it’s the truth,” Sophie said robustly. She felt a frisson of pleasure at having said such a thing openly. Pierre, and more importantly Katherine, had always drummed into her that her dreadfully bourgeois background must never be mentioned. “Please, Gregoire, relax with me.”

He smiled warmly at her. “I will try.”