‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. The manager tells me that you are an American. Doesn’t know where he is, thought the captain. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label.
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