Pascal Crew's study smelled of old books and pipe smoke, though he hadn't touched a pipe in ten years. The old man sat behind his desk with his cane across his knees and his silver eyebrows drawn together. Damien stood on the carpet like a boy called to the headmaster.
"Sit," Pascal said.
"I'd rather stand."
"You'd rather be difficult. Sit anyway."
Damien sat.
For a while neither of them spoke. A clock ticked. Outside the window, the garden lamps were coming on one by one.
"I read the article," Pascal said at last. "And the comments. A foolish habit, the comments. But I wanted to see what the public thought of my grandson's wife."
"And?"
"Half of them think she's a schemer. Half of them think you're a fool. A few think you've fallen in love." The old man's mouth twitched. "Those are the clever ones."
Damien said nothing.
"I'm not going to ask whether it's true," Pascal went on. "I'm too old to ask questions I already know the answers to. I'll only ask what you plan to do."
