As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. Sanguine they were not. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream.
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