``We found some owls had built a nest in the chimney, milord, but I promise you you'll never have trouble of that sort again.''

So, not only had he been here before, but it seemed he might well come again. Claire felt suddenly small and cheap, heroine of a trivial episode in the voluminous history of Don Juan.

A cold supper was ordered and a bottle of port. When Napoleon's ship had borne him to Elba, French wines had started to cross the Channel, the first shipments in a dozen war-ridden years, but the supplies had not yet reached rural hostelries where the sweet wines of the Spanish peninsula still ruled.

As they waited for supper they sat by the fire, glasses in hand, while Byron philosophized as much for his own entertainment as hers.

``Sex is overpriced,'' he said. ``The great Greek tragedies are concerned with man against Fate, not man against man for the prize of a woman's body. So don't see yourself as a heroine or fancy this little adventure is an event of major importance.''

``The gods seemed to think sex pretty important,'' she rebutted. ``Mars and Venus, Bacchus and Ariadne, Jupiter and Io, Byron and the nymph of the owl's nest. That would be Minerva, I suppose. Wasn't the owl her symbol?''

Byron laughed. ``So you know something of the classics, do you?''

``Tell me about Minerva, how she behaved, what she did to please you.''

``I'll tell you nothing. I don't ask you who' tis you're being unfaithful to, husband or lover. Frankly, I don't care.''