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could work in a museum or gallery, I suppose.” He looked at me with amusement.
    I swallowed hard. I felt vulnerable. There was a note of condescension in his tone—something that was almost a sneer—and now I knew why Hermione had felt that she had to warn me. Her father was unlikeable—it was as simple as that. I did not like him at all, and I imagined how most people who came across him would think that way.
    “Those jobs are quite hard to get,” I said mildly.
    He smiled. “And that, of course, is why the pay’s so low. Jobs that lots of people want to do—and that anybody can do, of course—will never be paid well. Supply and demand.”
    I felt my heart thumping within me. I had to say something. “Money’s not everything,” I said. “There’s job satisfaction …”
    “I think you’ll find that money is everything,” he retorted.
    Hermione came to my rescue. “I’m with Andrew on that,” she said. “You can’t put a monetary value on everything.” She was polite enough, but I could tell that she was both irritated and embarrassed. I had never been ashamed of my parents, but I knew that there were people who were, and Hermione must have been one.
    Her father turned to her with a condescending smile. “Can’t you?”
    “No,” she said. “You can’t. And anyway, we need to eat. Mrs. Thing …”
    “Yes,” said her father, putting down his glass and standing up. “We must consider Mrs. Thing.”
    As we went into the dining room, I glanced at my watch and worked out that we had another two hours of his company.
    WALKING BACK TO THE RAILWAY STATION AT HALF past nine, Hermione slipped her hand in mine. “You did really well.”
    “He’s not too bad.” He was, of course. He was worse than I had imagined—a parody, almost, of the condescending magnate, sure of himself, dismissive of those he considered beneath him, arrogant in the core of his being. I had never met anybody like him before, and so I did not understand, as I understand now, that such attitudes speak to weakness far more frequently than they speak to strength.
    “That’s kind of you. He’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s got his good points.”
    I waited for her to enumerate them, but nothing came.
    “He’s got a lot of enemies in the business world,” she said. “I think it’s his style. He picks fights.” She squeezed my hand. “He was trying to pick a fight with you—you realised that, didn’t you?”
    “I’m not sure. There were things he said …”
    “That question about whether you worked a full day. I could see what you were thinking.”
    “Maybe.”
    She squeezed my hand again. “He’ll try to get rid of you,” she half whispered.
    I let my astonishment show. “You mean he’ll try to kill me?”
    She giggled. “Oh no, nothing that crude. He’ll just try to stop … to stop us. He’ll do all sorts of things to put a wedge between us. He won’t want you to stay with me.”
    I asked her why. Was it jealousy, or was it because he did not think I was good enough for her?
    She thought about her answer for a moment. A breeze had arisen suddenly, a warm breeze, and on it was a trace of some highly scented plant in one of the gardens. It was a scent I knew from our garden at home, but I could not remember the name of the flower.
    “Mostly because he won’t think you’re good enough. Sorry, but you asked. It’s difficult to explain.”
    “Wrong background? Not grand enough?”
    She looked down at the ground. “Yes. And money …”
    “I don’t have enough?”
    She looked resigned. “Money’s everything to him. You heard what he said.”
    “And what about you? What do you think?”
    Perhaps I sounded offended, because she stopped and put her arms about my shoulders. “I wouldn’t care if you were ten thousand pounds in debt. Twenty thousand. I don’t care in the slightest. I like you, you see; you .”
    I took her hand. “He made me feel … rather