My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. 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. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. It was not quite the search I intended,’ he said with a touch of selfmockery as he released her, ‘but success comes in all sorts of unexpected ways. “It isn’t fair. She expanded that. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. ’ ‘But where then is Gosse?’ demanded Melusine.
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