He glanced across to the other seat. In between sipping champagne she was hugging her little dog to her like a shield. She looked about ten years old.

‘I’m really sorry I was mean,’ he said, and she flashed him a suspicious look.

‘Lawyers don’t apologise. If you acknowledge fault, then I get to sue.’

So maybe she wasn’t ten years old.

‘Tell me about your dog.’

‘He’s Hoppy.’

‘We’ve done that. I was hoping for a little more information.’

She looked at him suspiciously over the rim of her champagne glass.

‘Hoppy’s two years old,’ she said at last. ‘He got squashed by a tractor when he was five weeks old. I was helping deliver a foal, and the farmer was driving his tractor through the yard. Mud everywhere. This little one darted out to meet me, and went straight under the tractor wheel. When the tractor moved on we couldn’t see a sign of him. Then thirty seconds later I found him buried completely in mud. One leg was broken so badly it had to come off, but otherwise he was perfect. He even wiggled his tail when I patted him, smashed leg and all.’

‘So you bought him?’

‘I was given him. The farmer’s reaction to the accident was that it was a shame he hadn’t been killed outright. Hoppy’s so small he’s useless for ratting. That’s why he’d been bred. So I have my semi-useless, non-ratting Hoppy, and I love him to bits.’

‘And you can take him into Alp de Montez?’

‘Sure I can,’ she said defensively. ‘I’m a princess. Hoppy’s out for adventure, and so am I.’

He stared at her for a moment while she finished the last of the champagne. And then stared regretfully into the empty glass. In a flash Griswold was out from behind his screen with a refill. The elderly man was now smiling, Nick saw. He hadn’t smiled at him.

‘I shouldn’t,’ Rose was saying.

‘I’ll be the wit-keeper,’ he told her. ‘Relax.’