Yvette said, “Sha‘ri zayy leefah,” to her sister, untying her scarf from around her neck.

“Leefah?” I echoed, that being the only word I could make out.

Célia told me. “She said my hair is like a loofah. Rough and dry—”

Yvette laughed. “Oh, thank you, Célia.” She let the bright-blue-and-orange silk flap on the breeze. I caught hold of it and with tender fingers retied it around her neck—the wrong way. “James, I was going to put it over my hair. And now you’ve made me into a Boy Scout. Un scoot.” She whipped it off again but the breeze was now too strong to tame either her hair or the scarf. She held it like a flag. At that moment my eye took a snapshot of her thin young face, her olive tan, her parted smiling lips and white teeth, the sun-warmed skin of her neck. She was so beautiful, you see, and so gracious to Peter, that I forgot all about what happened next.

Peter, with his one eye, was bad at judging depth. He dug the oar into the water, caught a crab, and sent the bow of the boat into the wind. Sparks streamed from the tip of his cigarette and—no!—too late, they flew onto the scarf and speckled it with burn holes. Peter, aghast, dashed the cigarette into the water. Yvette dabbed at the silk saying, “Darling Peter, it was an accident, it doesn’t matter, look, I hardly ever wear it anyway.” Folding up the ruined scarf, slipping it into her bag. Then she made a motion with her hand, a little scrub of the air, to obliterate the incident. “Peter, seriously. Ma‘alesh, tant pis, never mind!”

—

Ma‘alesh, tant pis, never mind. All meaning the same thing.

Mrs. Moore used that gesture yesterday. The wiping-out movement. Because I’d been slow on the uptake, she had to try another tack.

So she drew the square. And put her fingers to her mouth. Pfff. Like a smoker, Tom said. And then her hand flew down, onto the square. As I drive I picture her doing it again. Smoking her cigarette in mime. Letting imaginary sparks fly down onto the headsquare.

The car is rolling to a halt, and I have no idea why. Some moments later I realize it’s because I’ve lifted my foot entirely from the accelerator.

With great care I turn the car around in the lane, and head for Upton Hall Lodge.

—

Lady Brock’s house is surrounded by gravel. I have managed to get here by dint of going very slowly indeed. The stones grind and pop one by one under the tires. I apply the hand brake. The pawl clicks over each tooth of the ratchet, counting down into silence.