V
Nicole went to the window and bent over the sill to take a look at the rising altercation on the terrace; the April sun shone pink on the saintly face of Augustine, the cook, and blue on the butcher’s knife she waved in her drunken hand. She had been with them since their return to Villa Diana in February.
Because of an obstruction of an awning she could see only d**k’s head and his hand holding one of his heavy canes with a bronze knob on it. The knife and the cane, menacing each other, were like tripos and short sword in a gladiatorial combat. d**k’s words reached her first:
‘…care how much kitchen wine you drink but when I find you digging into a bottle of Chablis Moutonne.’
‘You talk about drinking!’ Augustine cried, flourishing her sabre. ‘You drink all the time!’
Nicole called
