‘Where is it?’ he asked, when we reached home.
‘Upstairs,’ I said.
And he came upstairs behind me, pulling my habit playfully, in an effort to persuade us both that his impatience was a simulated one. I had to find my keys and unlock a drawer. I took the small, silk-bound volume from the back part of the drawer and gave it to him.
‘There!’ I exclaimed. ‘But remember lunch is ready.’
He regarded the book.
‘What a pretty binding!’ he said. ‘Who worked it?’
‘I did.’
‘And, of course, your handwriting is so pretty, too!’ he added, glancing at the leaves. ‘“La Vallière, an opera in three acts.”’
We exchanged a look, each of us deliciously perturbed, and then he ran off with the book.
He had to be called three times from the garden to lunch, and he brought the book with him, and read it in snatches during the meal, and while sipping his coffee. I watched him furtively as he turned over the pages.