He stopped a few feet away and leant on his stick, looking around the harbour with an air of obvious frustration, as though the whole place had been built and designed to in some way thwart his purpose, a pose he held until the waiter emerged with a tray bearing two tiny coffee cups and a pair of morning stiffeners, probably brandies. That the fellow was about his occupation and there were two people waiting for their order impinged on Peter not at all.

In a loud voice and with an execrable French accent he demanded to be told the whereabouts of the Place du Marechal Joffre. The waiter was naturally offended both by his peremptory manner and the level of his demand, which caused Peter to add in an even louder voice and more intemperate manner, and one carrying the implication he was addressing a complete dolt, ‘Je cherche l’Hotel Henri Quatre.’

Even though the waiter stopped to answer and give him directions, this did nothing to modify Peter’s tone or ease the look of irritation on his face — he wore the expression of a man absolutely certain he was likely to be lied to and sent in the wrong direction — which had him reiterate the question to ensure he was being correctly advised.

Finally sure of his route and the veracity of the instructions, mouthing an abrupt and graceless Merci beaucoup, Peter imperiously rapped his cane on the flagstones and stomped off, followed by hard looks aimed at his very erect back. He had upset the waiter and most of the customers by his attitude, but he had also given Cal Jardine directions as to where they should meet.