It would be very disloyal if he didn't.'
She paused, and then she said: That's why he sent me out here with the children, into France.'
She explained to him that they had no ties in England.
For ten years they had lived in Geneva; both children had been born there.
In that time they had seldom returned to England, even on holiday.
It had barely occurred to them that she should take the children back to England, so far away from him.
Cidoton, just across the border into France, was far enough.
'It's only just for a few weeks, until the situation clears a little,' she said placidly.
Then we shall be able to go home.'
To her, Geneva was home.
He left her at the entrance to the hotel, but next day at dejeuner she smiled at him when he came into the room, and asked him if he had enjoyed his walk.
'I went as far as the Pointe des Neiges,' he said courteously.
'It was delightful up there this morning, quite delightful.'
After that they often passed a word or two together, and he fell into the habit of sitting with her for a quarter of an hour each evening after dinner in the salon, drinking a cup of coffee.
He got to know the children too.
There were two of them.
Ronald was a dark-haired little boy of eight, whose toy train littered the floor of the salon with its tin lines.
He was mechanical, and would stand fascinated at the garage door while the concierge laboured to induce ten-year-old spark-plugs to fire the mixture in the ten-year-old Chrysler.
Old Howard came up behind him once.
'Could you drive a car like that?' he asked gently.
'Mais oui - c'est facile, ca' French came more easily to this little boy than English.
'You climb up in the seat and steer with the wheel.'
'But could you start it?'
'You just push the button, et elle va.
That's the 'lectric starter.' He pointed to the knob.
'That's right.
But it would be a very big car for you to manage.'
The child said: 'Big cars are easier to drive than little ones.
Have you got a car?'
Howard shook his head.
'Not now.
I used to have one.'
'What son was it?'
The old man looked down helplessly.
'I really forget,' he said.
'I think it was a Standard.'
Ronald looked up at him, incredulous.
'Don't you remember?'
But Howard couldn't.
The other child was Sheila, just five years old.
Her drawings littered the floor of the salon; for the moment her life was filled with a passion for coloured chalks.
Once as Howard came downstairs he found her sitting in a heap on the landing at a turn of the staircase, drawing industriously on the fly-leaf of a book.
The first tread of the flight served as a desk.
He stooped down by her.
'What are you drawing?'
She did not answer.
'Won't you show me?' he said.
And then: 'The chalks are lovely colours.'
He knelt down rheumatically on one knee.
'It looks like a lady.'