‘This is the way you tell me that you love me? You English idiot, you!’ He seized her wrists to hold her off, actually daring to laugh, much to Melusine’s increased fury. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. Sir John stood upon the threshold. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back.
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