She nodded softly but did not explain about her dead family or the fact that she was being stalked like prey by the killer. She couldn't know how close to the truth that was, however. Pippa didn't know that her life was about to get that much more complex. Her eyes looked distant, nevertheless, for a long moment before she fixed her dark eyes on Chéri and focused on them. Her mouth turned downward briefly but then her expression lifted when her name was complimented. "Several months, I haven't been in England for long at all..."

Chéri nodded “Where you in France? In Paris?” The idea of having met Pippa before, by chance, without knowing her appealed to Chéri, they loved the idea of somebody who knew their home, who could understand them beyond the language. They were so excited they got up on their toes for a moment, then they forced themselves down and, to contain the excitement, sat at the table. They put their hand on the dress, expanded it, then said “If we make a slint around the waist and add an hem, it could do.” They were try to make her forget their genuine excitement.

"No... I am from America. I..." What could she say? What could possibly come out of her mouth that would help the situation? Nothing. She looked down and said, "My family lives... lived there." Her voice was almost wooden at that point. "I hope to see Paris one day when..." when she wasn't running. But she trailed off.

America, she had said. Chéri tried to imaged it. What was shared of America back home was rivers of milk and honey, land so fertile it would feed you with no effort at all and wide open spaces that could be claimed ad infinitum, as if nobody had ever lived there. When confronted with something like that, Chéri could only ask “Why did you ever leave?” the idea sounded absurd. They checked her belly. Maybe that was why. Their eyes spoke for them. Chéri puffed “Whatfor?” People never wanted Paris for Paris, or so they had learnt.