But it was too late to worry about that now.
She realised that the concierge, although unable to understand what they were saying, was staring at them with curiosity.
She then said firmly to Torbot McBlane,
“Let’s find somewhere where we can sit down.”
He obviously thought it strange, but there was nothing he could do but agree with her.
They walked quickly and in silence down the narrow street and, crossing the Boulevard at the end of it, came in a short time to the chestnut trees that bordered the Champs-Élysées.
As Clova expected, there were children bowling their hoops and running over the grass, and nurses gossiping together while their charges slept in their expensive prams.
There was also an old man selling red and white balloons, which furnished a brilliant patch of colour a
