“But honest, no doubt.”
She looked faintly puzzled. “Oh no, my father was not at all honest. He was a dancer, and he stole some money from someone in the troupe. They put him in prison. Then the war came, and my mother took me to Paris. A very rich man took care of us for a time, and we had a very nice apartment.” She gave a nostalgic sigh: an impoverished grande dame lamenting past glories. “But he lost his money, and so my mother had to dance again. My mother died when we were in Madrid, and I was sent back to Paris, to a convent. It was terrible there. I do not know what happened to my father. I think perhaps he was killed in the war.”
“And what about José?”
“I met him in Berlin when I was dancing there. He did not like his partner. She was,” she added simply, “a terrible bitch.”
“Was this long ago?”
“Oh, yes. Three years. We have been to a great many places.” She examined him with affectionate concern. “But you are tired. You look tired. You have cut your face, too.”
“I tried to shave with one hand.”
“Have you got a very nice house in England?”
“My wife likes it.”
“Oh là-là! And do you like your wife?”