Perhaps Maria had brought some presents for the old woman yesterday, she thought, and given them to her before they took tea, before she collapsed. How sad. Whatever these three little boxes had contained, they were empty now. Perhaps little pieces of jewelry, some small token of affection. If so, she knew Mathilde would not let them out of her sight.

She crossed the room and looked along the corridor. The muttered prayers had ceased. She tiptoed to the door of the old woman’s room and peeped in. She was lying there, breathing steadily, eyes open and staring into space. She looked as if she were waiting for something, or someone. Juliette crept away. She was just telling herself that she was letting her imagination run away with her, when the doorbell rang, startling her.

She went to the front door, peered through the peephole, hesitated, then felt a sudden rush of elation: that handsome English journalist had come back.

She unbolted the door and opened it at once. This Rowland McGuire, whose card was in her pocket right now, had a half-amused, half-reckless look on his face—an expression Juliette decided she liked. In his arms, spilling out of his arms—and this she liked even more—was one of the most exquisite bouquets she had ever seen in her life.

“For you,” he said. “I was just wondering—when you come off duty—might I buy you a drink?”

He had the most devastating green eyes she had ever seen, and also the most devastating smile.

She hesitated for half a second; it was almost seven anyway. Then she returned the smile.

“I admire persistence,” she said. “And after today a drink would be excellent. I’ll just get my coat.”

From the window of Helen’s penthouse apartment, Pascal had a clear view of the street below. Standing in the darkened room in which Marianne was now sleeping, he watched Rowland McGuire leave the building next door and descend its wide portico steps. He was with a tall, elegant, middle-aged woman. Pascal caught a glimpse of her high-heeled shoes, her pale blond hair; she looked as if she were making some adverse comment on the weather; she drew her long fur coat more tightly around her. McGuire said something to her, at which she smiled; they disappeared, side by side, along the street.

Pascal rested his face against the cold dark glass. Behind him, Marianne’s breathing had become peaceful. The room was quiet, filled with the stuffed toy animals Marianne loved. The book from which he had been reading to her lay beside her bed, next to the tiny night-light in the shape of an owl with folded wings, which Pascal, knowing she feared the dark, had bought for her on one of his trips. From where? London? New York? Madrid? Rome? He had no recollection. He could no more remember this small event than he had been able to concentrate on the words in the story he had been reading aloud. Before he began reading, when he had been standing here at the window, as he was now, he had suddenly realized who they were, the man and the woman opposite, the tall man and the slender woman who kept her face carefully averted from this building as she spoke.