He collected his wits. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘is how anyone could pay attention to the opera when you were in the place.’
‘They’re French,’ she said. ‘They take art seriously.’
‘And you’re not French?’
She smiled. ‘That’s the question, it seems.’
‘French,’ he said. ‘You’re a brilliant mimic, but you’re French.’
‘You’re so sure,’ she said.
‘I’m merely a thickheaded Englishman, I know,’ he said. ‘But even I can tell French and English women apart. One might dress an Englishwoman in French fashion from head to toe and she’ll still look English. You…’
He trailed off, letting his gaze skim over her. Only consider her hair. It was as stylish as the precise coifs of other French-women…yet, no, not the same. She was…different.
‘You’re French, through and through,’ he said. ‘If I’m wrong, the stickpin is yours.’
‘And
