Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. He was no longer in military uniform, and it was evident from his suit of brown brocade that he had been disturbed while preparing for an evening engagement. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. The militia were in already. Just then—I was nervous. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it.
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