“It is a great art,” she said in broken English. He was now almost driven to despair. The pain in Cathy and Shari Beck’s faces upset him the most, but the posters with a close up of her face they had put all over town made his heart ache more. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. Mrs Sindlesham raised her brows. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. A young man was playing the banjo. She is in the hall now. And let ush go back to our brandewyn, and hollandsche genever.
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