“I probably will.” She wasn't even sure she cared. Most of the young men she met at parties seemed ridiculous to her.

Beata adored her brother, but she would rather have died than marry a man like Horst. She could have tolerated a man like Ulm, but the prospect of marriage to anyone in her world didn't appeal to her much, or at all. They all seemed dreary and boring and more often than not foolish and superficial to her. Antoine had seemed very different. Earnest, and deeper than most of the men she met, protective and sincere. She had never felt about anyone after a few hours as she did about him. Not that it would go anywhere. And she had no idea how he felt about her. She had none of Brigitte's instincts or artful ways with men. Brigitte could have told her in an instant that Antoine was crazy about her, but she hadn't seen them together. Although it sounded good to her. And the invitation to lunch was a sign that there was some interest there, but she didn't say anything to Beata. Her older sister was clearly not in the mood to discuss the matter further.

Beata was still silent as they rode the elevator downstairs for dinner, and as it was a warm night, their mother asked for a table on the terrace. She was wearing a very elegant navy blue silk dress, with a sapphire necklace, and matching navy silk shoes and bag. And she was wearing sapphire and diamond earrings that matched the necklace. They were three very beautiful women as the headwaiter seated them at their table. Beata was still quiet after they had ordered their meal, while Brigitte and their mother chatted about the shopping they'd done that afternoon. Monika told Beata that they had seen several dresses that would look well on her, but Beata showed no interest.

“It's a shame you can't wear books,” Brigitte teased her. “You'd have much more fun in the shops.”

“I'd rather make my clothes myself,” Beata said simply, as her sister rolled her eyes.

“Why go to all that trouble when you can buy them in shops?”

“Because then I can have what I want.” She had in fact made the pretty red silk dress she had on, which fit her to perfection, and hung on her slim body in clean, simple lines.

She was a gifted seamstress and had loved sewing since she was a child. Their governess had taught her, although Monika always told her that she didn't have to do that. But Beata preferred it. She had made some of her own evening gowns too, copied them from magazines, and drawings she saw of Paris collections, which were no longer available to them now anyway. She liked modifying them, and simplifying them to suit her tastes. She had made a beautiful green satin evening gown for her mother once as a gift, and Monika had been stunned by how expertly made it was. She would have done it for Brigitte, but she always said she hated homemade clothes. They seemed pathetic to her. Instead, sometimes Beata made her sister the satin and lace underwear that she loved, in a rainbow of colors. Brigitte loved those.

They had just finished their soup course when Beata saw her mother look up and just past her older daugh-ter's shoulder with a stunned expression. Beata had no idea what it was, and turned, to find Antoine standing just behind her, with a warm smile that took in the entire group.

“Madame Wittgenstein?” he asked politely, ignoring both her daughters, including the one who had captivated him that afternoon. He appeared to be riveted by their mother. “I must apologize for interrupting you, but I wanted to introduce myself and apologize as well for inviting your daughter to tea this afternoon without a chaperone. She had a little stumble on a walk near the lake, and I believe her ankle was hurting her. I thought the tea would do her good. Please forgive me.”

“No, I… not at all…of course…how kind of you…” Her gaze darted to Beata and then back to him as he introduced himself, bowed politely, and kissed her hand. Quite correctly, he had not made the same gesture to Beata, as she was unmarried, and hand kissing was a courtesy properly only proffered to married women. Beata had gotten only the bow, as was proper. In Germany, young men like him and her brothers bowed as he had, and clicked their heels together. But neither the Swiss nor the French did that, nor did he now. “I didn't realize she'd gotten hurt.” Monika looked momentarily confused, as Antoine turned to look at Beata, and nearly caught his breath when he saw her in the red dress. She had lit up like a starburst when he saw her from across the room, and had excused himself from his own mother to come to meet hers.

He made no attempt to introduce the two mothers as he knew he would be in deep waters, since Beata wanted him to claim to be Swiss. So he couldn't introduce Monika to his mother, and was content to meet her himself, and the striking Brigitte, who was staring at him in disbelief. He barely looked at her, treating her like the child she was, and not the woman she was longing to be, which won Monika's approval. Antoine had impeccable manners, and was obviously a man of breeding, and not a masher, as she had feared.

“How is your ankle, mademoiselle?” he asked with concern.

“It's fine, thank you very much, monsieur. You were very kind.” Beata blushed as she said it.

“Not at all. C'était la moindre des choses… it was the least I could do.” He turned his attention back to her mother then, and reiterated his luncheon invitation, which for once actually flustered her mother. He was so polite, so properly solicitous, so ingenuous, and so warm and kind that even Monika didn't have the heart to rebuff him, and in spite of herself she accepted, and they agreed to meet on the terrace at one o'clock the next day for lunch. As soon as that arrangement was made, he bowed again, kissed Mrs. Wittgenstein's hand again, and left to rejoin his own family, without a single longing look at Beata. He was entirely correct and pleasant. And once he was gone, Monika looked at her daughter with uncomfortable amazement.

“I can see why you like him. He is a very nice young man. He reminds me of Ulm.” It was an enormous compliment coming from her.

“He did me, too.” Only infinitely better looking, but she didn't say that as she quietly cut her meat, and prayed that no one could hear her heart pounding. He had pulled it off to perfection, not that it mattered. Whatever they felt for each other could go nowhere, but at least she could see him. Once more anyway. It was a happy memory she could take with her. The handsome young man she had met in Geneva. She was sure that everyone she met after that would compare unfavorably with him for years. She was already resigned to it, and imagined herself as a spinster for the rest of her life as she ate her dinner. His most unforgivable sin was that he wasn't Jewish. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't Swiss either. It was hopeless.

“Why didn't you tell me you hurt your ankle this afternoon?” her mother asked, sounding concerned after he left.

“It was nothing. He bumped into me as I came up to the terrace at teatime, after my walk at the lake. I think he felt sorry for me. I just turned it a little.”

“In that case, it was nice of him to invite you to tea. And us to lunch tomorrow.” She could see that her mother was momentarily under his spell, too. It was hard not to be. He was so handsome and so nice to everyone, and Beata was secretly pleased that he had ignored Brigitte. All the other men Beata knew nearly fainted at her sister's feet. But he seemed unimpressed. He was dazzled by Beata, although he hadn't shown that either. He had seemed perfectly normal and friendly, quite like Ulm, which was why Monika had accepted his invitation to lunch. He was definitely not a masher, as she had feared, but entirely respectable and agreeable to talk to. Beata said nothing more about it as the three of them finished their dinner. She didn't even glance his way as they left the terrace, and he made no effort to speak to them again. It was not at all what Monika had suspected or feared. Even Jacob couldn't disapprove. The chance meeting had obviously been harmless.

Only Brigitte was far more clever than either of them when the two girls finally reached their room, after saying goodnight to their mother.

“Oh my God, Beata, he's gorgeous!” she whispered to her older sister in wild-eyed admiration. “And he's crazy about you. The two of you totally fooled Mama.” Brigitte thought it was terrific and could imagine clandestine lovers' meetings at midnight.

“Don't be stupid,” Beata said as she took off the red dress and tossed it on a chair, wishing now that she had worn something more glamorous. As she thought of him, the dress seemed so plain. And she thought she was, too. “He's not crazy about me. He doesn't even know me. And we did not fool Mama. He invited us to lunch, and she accepted. That's all, just lunch, for heaven's sake. He's just being friendly.”

“Now you're being stupid. Men like that don't invite you to lunch unless they're mad about you. He didn't even look at you when he came to the table, or barely, and that says everything.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Beata looked amused.

“Oh, Beata”-her sister laughed at her-“you know absolutely nothing about men. When they act like you mean nothing to them, it means they are madly in love with you. And when they make a big fuss over you and look wild with love, they're usually lying.” Beata laughed at her sister's worldly wise analysis of the situation. But she was far more sophisticated in the ways of the world, and men, than Beata. She had good instincts. Better than her shy, serious sister.

“That's ridiculous.” Beata laughed with her, but she was secretly pleased. “So you are telling me that all the men who ignore me, like everyone in the restaurant tonight, are actually madly in love with me. How wonderful! And I'll certainly have to watch out for the ones who appear to love me, if they're all lying. Good Lord, how confusing!”