She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, his expression had changed.

“You’re a sweet, sweet thing, Genevieve.” He shook his head and smiled sadly. “Trouble is, you’ve never been in love, have you? And it shows, honey. It shows.”

“I see.” She thought about Robert proposing to her—the way she’d weighed up her decision; tried to convince herself that he was more than just a means of escape.

“Now I’ve upset you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

She shook her head. “I’m not upset. I needed to know.” There was too much laughter in the bar, and too much smoke.

“Look, Genevieve.”

“I’d like to go home now, Norman.”

“Sweetie.” He put his hand on hers. “Why don’t you try writing about something else? Something closer to your own experience?”

Genevieve pulled her hand away. “Stop patronizing me.”

He reached for his drink. “All right, then. I’ll be straight with you. The poems are no good. They’re like some tired old meal that’s been dished up again and again. What else do you have?”

“Well.” Hesitantly, Genevieve brought out the notebook and started flicking through. “I really thought the love poems were my best, but…I suppose I could copy out some of the others, and—”

“Are they all in there?” asked Betterson.

“Yes.”

“Then let me take the book. If there’s anything good in there, I’ll find it.”

“Oh, but there’s a lot of very rough material too. I’m a bit embarrassed to—”

“Come on, don’t be coy.” He reached out his open hand.

Blushing, she pushed the book across the table to him. “Do take care of it, won’t you? It’s…personal.”

“Of course.” And he gave another lopsided smile. “Now, let’s talk about the magazine, shall we?”

“Mind if I share?”

Genevieve, still a little rattled from her dialogue with Betterson, was getting into a taxi on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, outside the Select. Turning, she saw Guy Monteray standing there.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Shakespeare and Company.”

Sylvia Beach’s bookshop and lending library on the Rue de l’Odéon was so much more than a mere shop, forming as it did the hub of the Left Bank Anglo-American literary scene. Genevieve’s interest was pricked as to what business the man in the cream suit could have there after hours. In spite of the fact that Shakespeare and Company was not remotely on her route home, she nodded to him to get into the taxi.

“I can’t believe it’s taken me so many years to come to Paris,” he said, extending his arm along the seat behind her. “I’ve been here just a few days and I’ve never been more at home in my life.”

“I feel the same,” she said.