Lady Helena, who appeared to be just as fed up with her husband as Anthony was, simply said, “Shut up, Reggie,” and ordered him a third whiskey sour.

Anthony didn’t much care for Helena, either. She reminded him of some sort of nasty rodent. Such a contrast to his mother! The two women sat across the aisle from each other, Helena drab and proper in her houndstooth skirt and jacket, Nina so striking in her whitest-white silk pantsuit. Only a woman with true confidence could wear white silk, and his mother was one who could. Even at fifty-three, Nina was stunning, her dark, upswept hair showing scarcely a trace of gray, her figure the envy of any twenty-year-old. But of course, thought Anthony, she’s my mother.

And, as usual, she was getting in her digs at Helena.

“If you and Reggie hate it so much in Paris,” sniffed Nina, “why do you stay? If you ask me, people who don’t adore the city don’t deserve to live there.”

“Of course, you would love Paris,” said Helena.

“It’s all in the attitude. If you’d kept an open mind…”

“Oh, no, we’re much too stuffy,” muttered Helena.

“I didn’t say that. But there is a certain British attitude. God is an Englishman, that sort of thing.”

“You mean He isn’t?” Reggie interjected.

Helena didn’t laugh. “I just think,” she said, “that a certain amount of order and discipline is needed for the world to function properly.”

Nina glanced at Reggie, who was noisily slurping his whiskey. “Yes, I can see you both believe in discipline. No wonder the evening was such a disaster.”