Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. But for me it doesn’t matter. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel.
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