The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. The Frenchman was already being followed. She was, as Capes had said, a hard young woman. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. “No, that’s fine. Thieves and pickpockets are his constant companions.
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