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She hesitated. She did not suspect him of any ulterior
motive, but she was wary of all men at the moment.
Then she shrugged. Why not? She, too, was too
depressed for sleep.
She followed Jean-Paul up into the old-fashioned lift
and they whined slowly upwards, coming to a stop with a
shudder of machinery. He unlocked a door along the dark
corridor and stood back to let her enter.
It was an elegant apartment, very obviously that of a
man, yet furnished, she suspected, with the help of
Marie-Louise. The curtains and carpets were of a
traditional French Empire style. There were delicate
pieces of porcelain along the white and gold mantelshelf.
But the furniture was solid and masculine and fitted
oddly with the more feminine furnishings.
Jean-Paul gestured her to take a seat, but she said
that she would help him make the chocolate. He led her
into the tiny kitchen and they companionably heated the
milk, talking very little.
“You were right, Kate,” he sighed. “She barely looked
at me. Well, I am finished after this. I shall ask Marc for
a job elsewhere—in England, perhaps.”
She stirred the chocolate. “Be more patient,” she
advised again. “Wait and see. Ring her in a few weeks
and ask her out. If she refuses, don’t make a thing of it—
wait and ask again.”
They carried their cups through into the sitting-room
and were just sitting down when the doorbell rang.
“Who can it be?” Jean-Paul said, staring in surprise.
“At two-thirty in the morning?”
