"She was lovely," Joanna said. "Like a princess! And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him?"
"No," I said hurriedly. "No portrait." I had spoken my first lie to Joanna, for there was a painting, half-completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little watercolor, and Joanna discovered it to my consternation.
"What a magnificent cat!" she said. "Was it a pet?"
"It is Dauphin," I said nervously.
She laughed. "He has your eyes, Etienne."
"Joanna, I must tell you something—"
"And this ferocious gentleman with the moustaches? Who is he?"
"My grandfather. Joanna, you must listen—"
Francois, who had been following our inspection tour at shadow's-length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence.
"We will be serving dinner at seven-thirty," he said. "If the lady would care to dress—"