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halt. "Where is she?"
    "Lisette is with her grandmother near Rouen for a few days."
    "How old is Lisette?"
    "Sixteen."
    Stephen said, "How is it possible for you to have a daughter of that age?"
    "She and Grégoire are my stepchildren," said Madame Azaire. "My husband's first wife died eight years ago and we were married two years after that."
    "I knew it," he said. "I knew you couldn't be old enough to have a child that old."
    Madame Azaire smiled again, a little more self-consciously.
    He looked at her face, bent over the thorns and dry blooms of the roses, and imagined her flesh beaten by her withered, corrupt husband. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed her hand, folding it in both of his own.
    She turned swiftly to him, the blood rushing into her face, her eyes filled with alarm.
    Stephen held her hand against the thick serge of his jacket. He said nothing. The satisfaction of acting on impulse had lent him calm. He looked into her eyes as though daring her to respond in a way not dictated by their social positions.
    "Monsieur. Please let go of my hand." She tried to laugh it off. Stephen noticed that there was not much pressure of withdrawal from her hand itself to accompany her words. The fact that her other hand held the pruning shears made it difficult for her to extract herself without pulling in some way that risked making her lose her composure.
    Stephen said, "The other night I heard sounds from your room. Isabelle--"
    "Monsieur, you--"
    "Stephen."
    "You must stop this now. You must not humiliate me."
    "I have no wish to humiliate you. Ever. I merely wanted to reassure you." It was a strange choice of words, and Stephen felt its oddness as he spoke, but he let go of her hand.
    She looked into his face with more composure than she had managed before.
    "You must respect my position," she said.
    "I will," said Stephen. It seemed to him there was some ambiguity in what she had said and that he had capitalized on it by using the future tense in his acquiescence.
    Seeing he could not improve on this advance, he dragged himself from her presence.
    Madame Azaire watched his tall figure retreat across the grass to the house. She turned back to her roses, shaking her head as though in defiance of some unwanted feeling.
    *
    Since his flight from the room in the factory where the workers took their meals, Stephen had found a café on the other side of the cathedral to which he went each day for lunch. It was a place frequented by young men, students or apprentices, many of whom sat at the same tables each day. The food was prepared by a sturdy Parisian exile who had once had a café in the Place de l'Odéon. Knowing student appetites, he served only one dish, but in quantity, with bread and wine included in the price. His commonest dish was beef, with custards or fruit tart to follow it. Stephen was halfway through lunch at a seat in the window when he saw a familiar figure bustle past, her head lowered, with a basket on her arm. Her face was concealed by a scarf but he recognized her by her walk and the tartan sash at her waist.
    He left some coins spinning on the table as he pushed back his chair and went out into the street. He saw her disappear from the corner of the square and go down a narrow side street. He ran to catch her up. He drew level just as she was pulling the bell handle outside a double door with flaking green paint. Madame Azaire was flustered when he accosted her. "Monsieur... I, I wasn't expecting you. I am delivering something to a friend."
    "I saw you go past the café I was in. I thought I would come and see if I could help carry anything for you."
    She looked doubtfully at her basket. "No. No, thank you." The door was opened by a young man with brown wavy hair and an alert expression. His face showed recognition and urgency.
    "Come in," he said and laid his hand on Madame Azaire's shoulder as he ushered her into a courtyard.
    "This is a friend," she said uncertainly, indicating Stephen, who