" I’m not leaving," he said suddenly. "They can kiss my ass. Who the hell are they supposed to be? They don’t even live in Brittany. They don’t even live in France. " He took an angry gulp of his third Pernod. "And what are you looking so glum about?"

The question was directed at their daughter, who sat staring mutely at her untouched glass of blanc-cassis. Of necessity she had long ago grown used to being snubbed by her distant relatives, but she had never felt it so keenly.

"I asked you a question, my girl."

She started and looked up. "Father," she murmured, "no one is talking to us. Nobody wants us here. Please, mayn’t we go?"

Her lips trembled slightly, emphasizing the tiny, radiating lines that had recently begun to appear around her mouth so prematurely. Not yet thirty and never beautiful, with fine, pale hair, she already had a wan, faded look that her birdlike mother would not have at eighty. Only her eyes, a lucid gray-green, shone with warmth, but these were often cast down, as they were now.

"Why should we go?" Her father’s voice was harsh. "Didn’t we get invited?" He finished the Pernod and hissed at the solemn servant for another. When he got it he took a long pull, then nodded to himself and smiled. "Well, I know a few things they don’t know. Oh, yes, they have a surprise coming, a big-"

" What do you know?" Leona said impatiently, tossing her head, her Italian accent broadening, her eyes flashing more dramatically still. "You’re living in a dream world. Claire is right. They’ll make us look like fools."

A second interruption was more than Claude Fougeray could tolerate. His hand clenched, his eyes bulged a little more. "Shut up, you Italian bitch!" he said in a voice that carried plainly throughout the room.

The effect on Madame Fougeray was immediate and colorful. Bright disks of crimson leaped out on her cheeks, as round and red as a pair of checkers. Her mouth, caught closed while forming a word, sprang open with an audible pop. She stood abruptly.