Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud. She directed the orchestra to tune again. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Paris is not the place for two young girls. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. Her education was remarkable in that it was overdeveloped here and underdeveloped there: the woman of thirty and the child of ten were always getting in each other's way. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet.
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