And from that not so casual speculation began an incident which brought the Saint to the brink of a fate worse than. But let us not be jumping the gun.
Although he had never been so crude as to even glance towards Rowena Flane and her step-father while making his inquiries, Simon knew that the recognition had been mutual; and when the hostess's peregrinations took her to the corner table he had no doubt that some equally sophisticated inquiry was made about himself. But he would not have predicted that it would have the result it did.
It was one of those mild and ideal evenings in May, when summer often begins in Provence, and after succumbing to an exquisite miniature Soufflé au Grand Marnier he was happy to accede to the suggestion of having his coffee served outside under the trees. Wakerose and Rowena had started and finished before him, and were already at a table on the front terrace which Simon had to pass in search of one for himself; and Mr. Wakerose stood up and said: "Excuse me, Mr. Templar. We seem destined to keep crossing paths on this trip. Why not give in to it and join us?"
"Why not?" Simon said agreeably, but looked at the fat girl for his cue.
She smiled her indorsement with a readiness which suggested that the invitation could actually have been her idea.
"Thank you," Simon said, and sat down beside her.
Liqueurs came with the coffee — a Benedictine for her, a Chatelaine Armagnac for Mr. Wakerose. Simon decided to join him in the latter.
"It makes an interesting change," said Mr. Wakerose. "And I like to enjoy the libations of the territory, whenever they are reasonably potable. And after all, we are nowhere near Cognac, but much nearer the latitude of Bordeaux."
"And those black-oak Gascon casks make all the difference from ageing in the limousins," Simon concurred, tasting appreciatively. "I think it takes a harder and drier brandy to follow the more rugged wines of the Rhône — like this."
As an exercise in one-upmanship it was perhaps a trifle flashy, but he had the satisfaction of seeing Saville Wakerose blink.
"Are you just on the trail of food and drink?" Rowena asked. "Or is it something more exciting?"
"Just eating my way around," said the Saint carelessly, having accustomed himself to these gambits as a formality that had to be suffered with good humor. "That can be exciting enough, in places like this."
"You sound as if you'd evolved a formula for handling silly questions. But I suppose you've had to."
It was Simon's turn to blink — though he was sufficiently on guard, from instinct and habit, to permit himself no more than a smile. But it was a smile warmed by the surprised recognition of a perceptivity which he had been guilty of failing to expect from a poor little fat rich girl.
"You've probably had to do the same, haven't you?" he said, and it was almost an apology.
"It appears that we all know each other," Mr. Wakerose observed drily. "Although I did forget the ceremonial introductions. But I'm sure Mr. Templar made the same subtle inquiries about us that we made about him."
Simon realized that Wakerose was also a gamesman, and nodded his sporting acknowledgement of the ploy.
"Doesn't everybody?" he returned blandly. "However, I was telling the truth. The only clues I'm following are in menus. I stopped looking for trouble years ago — because quite enough of it started looking for me."
Saville Wakerose trimmed his cigar.
"We haven't only been eating our way around, as you put it, in all those places where you've been seeing us," he said. "We've also been seeing all the historic sights. Are you familiar with the history of these parts, Mr. Templar?"
Simon joyously spotted the trap from afar.
"Only what I've read in the guide-books, like everyone else," he said, skirting it neatly and leaving the other to follow.
Wakerose just as gracefully sidestepped his own pitfall.
"Rowena loves history, or at least historical novels," he explained, "and I prefer to read cook books. But I let her drag me around the ancient monuments, and she lets me show her the temples of the table, and it makes an interesting symbiosis." It was a stand-off, like two duellists stopped by a mutual discovery of respect for the other's skill, and accepting a tacit truce while deciding how — or whether — to continue.
Simon was perfectly content to leave it that way. He turned to Rowena again with a new friendliness, and said: "Historical novels cover a lot of ground, between deluges — from the Flood to Prohibition. Do you like all of 'em, or are you hooked on any particular period?"
"It's not the period so much as the atmosphere," she said. "When I want to relax and be entertained, I want romance and glamor and a happy ending. I can't stand this modern obsession with everything sordid and complicated and depressing."
"But you don't think life only started to be sordid and depressing less than a hundred years ago?"
"Of course not. I know that in many ways it was much worse. But for some reason, when writers look at the world around them they only seem to see the worst of it, or that's all they want to talk about. But when they look back, they bring out the best and the happiest things."
"And that's all you want to see?"
"Yes, if I'm paying for it. Why spend money to be depressed?"
"I could see your point," Simon said deliberately, "if you were a poor struggling working girl with indigent parents and a thriftless husband, dreaming of an escape she'll never have. But if we put the cards on the table, and pretend we know who you are — why do you need that escape?"
Wakerose had suddenly begun to beam like an emaciated Buddha.
"This is prodigious," he said. "Mr. Templar is putting you on, Rowena."
"I didn't mean to," Simon said quickly, but without taking his eyes off her. "It was meant as an honest question."
"Then you tell me honestly," she said, "why a rich girl with no worries shouldn't prefer to dream about knights in shining armor or dashing cavaliers, instead of the kind of men she sees all the time."
"Because she should be sophisticated enough to know that they're the only kind she could live with — or who could live with her. The day after this historical hero swept her off her feet, she'd start trying to housebreak him. She'd decide that she couldn't stand the battered old tin suit he rescued her in, and take him down to the smithy for a new one, which she would pick for him. The cavalier who spread his coat over a puddle for her to walk on with her dainty feet would find that she expected to repeat the performance at home while he was wearing it."
"Is that really what you think about women — or just about me, Mr. Templar?"
"It couldn't possibly be personal, Miss Flane, because I never had any reason to think about you before," said the Saint calmly and pleasantly. "It's what I think about most modern women, and especially American women. They want a lion as far as the altar, and a lap-dog from there on. They think that chivalry is a great wheeze for getting cigarettes lighted and doors opened and lots of alimony, but they insist that they're just as good as a man in every field where there's no advantage in pleading femininity. So being accustomed to having the best of it both ways, they'd go running back to Mother or their lawyers if the fine swaggering male who swept them off their feet had the nerve to think he could go on being the boss after he'd carried them over the bridal threshold. The difference is that some motherless poor girls might figure it was better to put up with that horrible brute of a Prince than go back to being Cinderella, but the rich girl has no such problem."