He sat down beside her. “Embothrium coccineum, could it be?”

“That’s exactly what it is. You are clever.”

“It’s what comes of studying Latin,” he said. “About the only thing.” But her compliment pleased him. He never wanted people to think him wise or strong. It had been a fearful burden. Drawing the same response out of this charming stranger, he found himself giving in to his own pleasure.

She said, “I’m afraid we can’t do Chilean fire bushes in London. Too cold. It would never flower.”

“It might, if you found a sheltered spot.”

“I wonder if Rita would give me a cutting.”

“Of course she would.” He felt a rush of generosity towards their hostess. “That’s the thing about gardeners, they give things to each other.”

“But it’s so funny.” She was conspiratorial. “Have you noticed her conscientious objection to yellow? Too assertive, she says.”

“Are you good at telling people from their gardens?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely. People who assert in their gardens are all the more delicate in life. I wonder what you would make of mine.”

“What is it about gardens?” replied Wavery. He was trying to rein in his excitement. “People go on and on about them, but I see why they do.” And before he knew it he was speaking to her of his own craving, one day to create a garden in Sintra.

She listened, head down, as he described for her a view of the sea through olive trees. Her hair covered her eyes so he could not see what she was thinking. When he had finished she looked up. Her mouth was an immaculate smile. “But that’s a wonderful thing to want to do.”

Wavery leaned away. Her reply had undermined him. He was embarrassed. “Are you here alone?” he asked.

“No, I have a husband. I saw you talking to him. Clark Gable.”

“Ah, that’s him,” said Wavery. He remembered the handsome man flirting with the waitress.

They were on a three week visit to Peru. Adam had hopes of selling an auto-vinification plant to the Tacama Wine Company in Ica. They were staying at the Miramar. She was telling him all this when a voice came from the doorway. The wife of the French Number Two was saying, “Tom, I’m coming to talk with you. I have done my penance with Denver.”

But Wavery did not move. “Oh,” said Madame Palliasse. “Oh,” and she retreated inside. “That man had swallowed a rainbow,” she later told her husband.

“Oughtn’t you to go in?” said Catharine. Again her eyes gusted through him. He knew he should look away, but did not.

“No,” said Wavery. “Unless you want to.” He heard the emotional edge to his prattle. She made him feel boyish and intense, something he was not aware of having felt in a long time.

“You know you have a spot on your trousers?”

“Where?”

She pointed behind his left knee. “A pen might have run . . . ”

She had seen the mark across the room. A crude black circle at the height of his ankle, spreading furry legs into the light brown cotton. That’s what she first had noticed about him, she would say at another time of the paint mark from Penny’s easel. That’s what stopped her leaving. That’s what prevented her from collecting her husband and escorting him to their hotel. But none of this she explained in the patio because at that moment a man tottered onto the step.