Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. The next moment he was by her side. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice.
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