Helen was wearing a flattering wine-red woolen dress. Her dark hair was cut in a new style that suited her. Her jewelry was discreet. She was looking well, he thought; she was looking poised, rich, attractive. She looked like the wife of a man of means—which was, he supposed vaguely, how she had always wanted to look.

How could he have been married to her for five years and known her so little, he thought. And the idea of his own mistaken conception of her deepened his depression. Helen liked material things—it was as simple, as basic, as that. Pascal, indifferent to possessions—interested in art, for instance, but perfectly content to travel to a museum or gallery to view it, and with no desire to acquire it himself—had assumed that Helen felt the same way. Surely, when he had first met her, she had been concerned with things other than acquisition? He could remember talking to her about politics, plays, books, films—and being certain at the time that she was as genuinely interested in them as he was himself. But perhaps she had not been. Perhaps he had simply failed to see her, or to understand her from the first. Perhaps the same was also true of Gini. I am a photographer, Pascal thought; it is my job, my life, to see—and yet I’ve been blind. He swallowed half the whiskey in one gulp, and, ignoring Helen’s little pout of displeasure, lit a cigarette.

Helen had been watching him closely. “What’s wrong, Pascal? Because something is. You arrived with a face like thunder. I can see the storm clouds right now.” She paused, eyeing him in a meditative way. “You’ve quarreled with Gini—is that it?”

“Just leave it, okay, Helen? I’m tired, and I’m not in the mood for one of your interrogation sessions—all right?”

“As you like.” She shrugged. “It’s perfectly obvious, nonetheless. You should learn to talk to people about your problems, Pascal. It’s not good to bottle things up the way you do.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Who says I have a problem?” He rose, paced the room, and then, with a cold glance in her direction poured himself a second drink.

“When you have a problem,” Helen said in a sweet voice, “you glower, then you pace. Deny it all you like. And in your present mood, I wouldn’t advise another drink.”

“Why not?” He turned to give her a cold stare. “Maybe I feel like getting drunk for once in my life.”

“It’s your funeral. Just don’t get drunk here.” She gave another irritable shrug. “How much longer are you staying in Paris?”

“I’ll stay until Marianne’s birthday next Monday. I’d like to see her on her birthday. If you don’t object.”

“No, Pascal. I don’t object. You can come to her birthday party. I told you. There’s no reason now for any hostility. We can all be friends. Ralph and you, Gini and me. We can be civilized.”

“Sure.” He gave her another cold look. “We can have nice civilized meals together. A little civilized lunch, perhaps?”