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just a little bit, a little bit drunk?”
    “Impossible.”
    “Well, they say here,” Paula picked up the menu, “they say here it’s made from vintage cheeses.”
    Francesca began to laugh. Her face softened and became warm. “Dear Paula,” she said affectionately. “It’s so very good to hear you again.”
    “I think,” Paula helped herself to some more fondue, “I think I was just empty with hunger, and so the blood is now coping with all the calories in my stomach, leaving me slightly lightheaded. Could that be my trouble?” She looked at her fork, and frowned. “Or perhaps I’m just sorry for Bill,” she said gravely.
    “For him? Why, he’s the most composed, cool, and self-sufficient individual I’ve met in a long, long time.”
    “You know, Francesca, your English is amazing.”
    “I’ve been having a lot of practice.”
    “Are you thinking of coming to America?”
    Francesca shook her head. “I’ve merely been teaching those who are going to America,” she said very quietly.
    “Oh, you mean those—”
    “Yes,” Francesca said quickly. “But not here, Paula. Later, we’ll talk about it. When we’re out in the open air.”
    “But this looks like a most respectable place.” Paula looked round it, now with added interest.
    “Of course it is,” Francesca assured her. She smiled at Paula’s sudden disappointment. “Nothing but students, and representatives from the Cantons when Parliament is in session, and a few business-men, and some scholars, and a poet or two, and the usual painters.”
    “And tourists.”
    “I’m afraid so. In Switzerland, they take the place of the poor. They are always with us.”
    “I wonder what Bill is doing in Bern?”
    “What does anyone do? He is on holiday perhaps.”
    “On furlough, darling. He’s in the army.”
    “On furlough,” Francesca repeated carefully, memorising it. “But why must we talk about this Bill Denning? Because you’re sorry for him?”
    “I hurt him. Didn’t you see?”
    “Hurt him ? Why, he didn’t even want to talk to us. He was thinking of something else all the time. That I did see.”
    “You don’t understand, Francesca.”
    “I hate people who tell me I don’t understand.”
    Paula said, “But you don’t, darling, not at this minute. You see, every time I meet Bill I have a mad genius for being tactless. I talk so enthusiastically about Andy, I kind of show off— without meaning to—all the fun we have together, and how well we’ve done, and what a happy marriage I have.”
    Francesca had a strange smile on her face. “Your friends forgive you that,” she said. There was pleasure, however painful, in being reminded that personal happiness still existed.
    “But Bill—well, once he was as happily married as Andy and I.”
    “Was married?”
    “Now, don’t look like that. Not all Americans get divorced, you know.”
    Francesca’s pale cheeks coloured. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “You know, Francesca, I don’t think you’re looking after yourself properly. You’re much too pale. Where’s the colour you used to have?”
    “I’m all right. I’ve just had two weeks of ’flu.”
    “You are working too hard.”
    “Stop it, Paula.” Francesca tried to smile. “I know I couldn’t look worse, but don’t keep telling me. You’re as bad as Aunt Louisa.”
    “Perhaps you ought to go back to live in Italy.”
    “With whom? My family is dead. All of them.”
    “If they had been alive, would you have lived with them anyway?”
    “Probably not. I’d have had my own life. But—” Francesca hesitated. How could she explain all this to someone as secure as Paula? “But then I’d have had my friends too.”
    “You could make new friends now.”
    “Not until I learn to trust people again,” Francesca said bitterly. “I’ve still too much hate in my heart. Let me get that under control first. I’ve shocked you?”
    “No, no.” But Paula was startled.
    “It’s better for me to stay