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their advisers. The eldest always went into the service of his country, which was what Sir Alexis had done so admirably. But he was the head of the family, make no mistake of that.
    As Isabel listened, she realized why sweet old Cecil was springing for vintage champagne and wine. He was so happy to see her get a really top client. Cecil was asnob, perhaps, but Isabel knew that he was just enough of a softy to want this all to work out well, not to mention that he would be happy to deal with Sir Alexis Hyatt anytime through her. She knew, however, that personal gain was not Cecil’s reason for taking her to lunch, so she decided to repay the favor by having a jolly time listening to him. As she did, she scooped up spoonfuls of
fraises de bois
, tiny wild strawberries whose taste was so pure and fresh that it sparked memories of a beautiful day made of laughter, sunshine and love in a wood somewhere in the heart of Provence long ago.
    Over coffee Cecil wound up his biography with what, for a man, were usually the least important details, but for a woman, were usually the ones that added the spice of life. Sir Alexis Hyatt was married once when very young to an extremely rich, beautiful Persian girl. About fifteen years ago they divorced when she ran off with a famous architect. The marriage left him with two sons — one a doctor and one a farmer on a grand scale. Around fifty-five years old, Sir Alexis usually traveled with one or the other of the two women who had been in his life since his wife left him.
    “Well, my dear, that is just about all I know of your Sir Alexis Hyatt, except that he is a gentleman.” Cecil smiled. “Don’t let him go.”
    “But, what does he look like?” Isabel asked impatiently.
    On this point all that Isabel could get out of Cecil was that Sir Alexis was very tall and slim, with dark coloring. Her luncheon companion shrugged off her queries with an irritable, “I have no idea what you mean by ‘handsome’; let’s just say that he is pleasant to look at and leave it at that.”
    Considering the slight touch of annoyance in Cecil’s voice, and knowing his vanity, Isabel realized that Sir Alexis Hyatt must be at least as good-looking as Cecil, and most likely better-looking. She was inwardly amused and thought,
How dark, Cecil? Tan, the color of milk chocolate, or perhaps Cadbury’s dark bitter kind? Are his eyes tiny as pinpoints and does he wear thick lenses, or are his eyes big, dark and liquidly sexy? What do you mean by “tall”? Do you mean he is tall for an Arab, or taller than you? Never mind slim; that’s always good, especially when it’s how one man describes another
.
    Isabel leaned towards Cecil and, turning his head, gavehim a very gentle kiss on the cheek. He smiled, reached out and stroked her hair, then launched into an anecdote concerning the Louis XV chairs that he had just bought. She went with Cecil to see them after lunch and they were indeed marvelous, without question the best chairs for sale anywhere in the world.
    Rubinstein and the Chopin ballades, Joy’s sweet singing and the rhythmic click of the loom as she threw the shuttle, changed treadles and pulled forward and back on the batten, these were the sounds that set the atmosphere in the studio. Isabel was at the very opposite end of the room, sitting at her drafting table, selecting various things to take with her to Egypt. Drafting pencils, tracing paper, templates, tape measure, slide rule, quarter-inch scale, small triangle and T-square were all standard equipment for an assignment abroad. Other things she would take included a color chart in small book form, a lighting catalog, her smallest recorder for dictation, and a small, blank-paged book covered in fabric. In it she would write down everything of importance on the Hyatt job; her way of keeping a record.
    After putting all the things in a wicker basket, where they would stay until packed, she covered her drafting table and walked through the