She observed that Gini, to whom she spoke regularly on the telephone, had remained with Pascal in France. She observed that Gini’s voice lifted with optimism and delight as she discussed, first, the success of the operation on Pascal’s fractured arm, and then his slow but gradual progress since. She observed that neither Gini nor Pascal seemed eager to return to London, and were planning to remain in Paris until late May at least. She observed that Rowland McGuire now worked longer hours than anyone else in the Correspondent building, even longer than Max. She observed—with Pixie’s assistance—that McGuire had become curiously impervious to the seductions of seductive women: his latest research assistant—or so Pixie claimed—a young woman so flagrantly nubile, Lindsay had hated her on sight, was rumored to have flung herself at McGuire shamelessly; she had been firmly and impolitely repulsed.

In her better moments, Lindsay could disregard such observations. In her weaker ones, unfortunately, Markov seemed to contrive to pop up. He had appointed himself love’s agent provocateur. “How’s it going, Lindy, my love?” he caroled down the telephone from that location in Hyderabad. “Any progress?” he demanded from somewhere in the Mojave Desert. “What is this?” he shrieked from a mobile outside an abandoned Australian silver mine, where he was photographing ball gowns. “Are you a woman, Lindy? What’s your heart pumping, darling—water, or blood? Get to it. I fly back tomorrow. I’m taking you to dinner. And believe me, I shall expect action. I shall expect a full report.”

“Well?” he said the next night in a wildly fashionable restaurant. “Fill me in, sweetheart. Full intercourse—or are we still at the tiresome courtship stage?”

He adjusted the brim of his hat, sighed, and lit a cigarette.

“Neither,” Lindsay said. “Rumor has it, he’s now a monk.”

Markov brightened. “That’s promising. Abstinence is bound to increase your chances. Especially in his case. Now, did you try drinks-after-work?”

“Yes, I did. Will you give it a rest, Markov? He didn’t want a drink. He also didn’t want lunch, or dinner at my flat. He didn’t even bite on the movie idea—and I thought that was bound to work. Three hours of Eisenstein, plus Tom, so he’d feel safe. I was sure that would tempt him, but no.”

“You’re not trying, Lindy. You have to be bolder. Act, or you’ll always regret it. Swallow your pride, darling. Stamp on your principles. Leap in where angels fear to tread.”

Lindsay considered this. “How?” she said.

Markov looked thoughtful. “Shared interests,” he announced at last. “Tell him you want to learn to climb. Buy one of those terrible anorak things. Stride across the hills with him. Clutch his manly arm occasionally. Carry his pitons—”

“Give me a break, Markov. I’d look like hell in an anorak. I get vertigo on my front steps.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s think. Churches. You said he liked churches.”

“I said he liked one church, Markov. It’s right across his street.”

“Like one, like them all. Stop making difficulties. I feel this one, Lindy, I can see it panning out. A weekend in the country. Somewhere like Norfolk. Norfolk has very good churches. I went there once. You do a bit of preparation, obviously, before you go. Read some books. Then you talk about buttresses. You make sensitive comments about rood screens, sweetling.”