Like cigarette odour or the smell of garlic on the breath, the overnight argument was still there, a barrier neither was prepared to cross. Richard Deaken moved politely but unspeaking about the kitchen and Karen manoeuvred with equal good manners and matching silence in the opposite direction, in a dance that neither enjoyed nor properly knew the steps. She set the table, as she always did. And he put the brioches in the basket and then laid the bread alongside; it was always his job to go to the baker just off the boulevard Jacques Dalcrose for morning bread. Just as it was to brew the coffee. He concentrated more than was necessary upon the filter. He heard her sigh. Deaken removed the filter and the coffee residue with elaborate caution, almost as if it might explode, and then carried the pot to the table. He put it between them, without offering to pour for her. She reached forward impatiently, splashing some into her cup so that it spilled into the saucer. Deaken realized it was childish not to have done it for her. Karen used a tissue to clean the saucer and then turned it between her fingers into a tiny brown ball. Deaken carefully ensured he finished pouring well before the rim of his own cup, so there was no spill; he should have bought a newspaper on the way back from the baker, to create a physical division between them.