She crept down the stairs to the room below and began quietly to tidy it. Today had to be perfect, so she threw away yesterday’s newspapers, and neatly stacked the books she had been reading the previous afternoon, and folded a sweater Pascal had tossed down the night before. Then, on an impulse, she unshook the folds again and pressed her face against the wool; it smelled just discernibly of his skin and his hair, and at this time she felt inexpressibly happy. She thought: I was right; all my predictions were correct, and—refolding the sweater—she told herself that although occasionally he still infiltrated her dreams, she had cured herself of Rowland McGuire. She and Pascal had been close, very close, to disaster, but they had inched away from it, and escaped.

The escape had not been an easy one; there had been times in Paris when she had despaired, as had Pascal. But something—God, luck, perseverance—had been there to assist them. And now, today, she could feel her own good fortune: she might not have merited it, but fortune was hers and it had been lavishly dispensed.

Twice blessed, she thought, and gave a little pirouette of impromptu joy. Then she pulled the sweater on over her thin white nightdress because she wanted to feel Pascal against her skin. She padded out to the kitchen and began her preparations dreamily, laying a tray—maybe she should put a flower on that tray? Absurd, she thought; but these details mattered because she wanted them both to remember them always. So: perfect tray, perfect breakfast; and a perfect beginning to this, a perfect day.

“What a day…” someone remarked as Rowland opened the back door to Max’s house and stepped out into the freshness of the May morning.

Rowland halted, annoyed. It was not seven yet; he had not expected anyone else to be up. He had certainly not expected to encounter anyone else in Max’s garden, and the accents and intonation of that particular voice filled him with foreboding. He glared to left and right. No one was visible.

“Perfect,” he replied in a discouraging tone.

“A perfect day for a walk,” said the voice, which now appeared to come from behind a clipped yew. “Mind if I join you?”

Rowland did mind. He minded very much. He accelerated in the opposite direction, around a hedge, and along a laburnum tunnel. Just when he was congratulating himself on the success of this maneuver, Markov—the risible figure of Markov—materialized at his side.

“What a good idea,” Markov said in faintly satiric tones. “A walk before breakfast on an English spring morning. The wind in one’s face. A stride across the hills. Or maybe a gentle meander along the river valley…”

Rowland gave Markov one quick, assessing glance. He had not the least idea why Max and Charlotte had been insane enough to invite Markov to the christening of their daughter, although he assumed Lindsay had had a hand in the invitation. He regretted his presence in their house, and he regretted it even more here. He looked Markov up and down. The intolerable man was, as he had been the previous evening, wearing foolish clothes. His trousers appeared to be made of black velvet. His jacket—no, Rowland could not bring himself to look at the jacket. He was wearing earrings, and had set a black baseball cap back to front on his long flaxen curls. As usual—he had not removed them once during dinner the previous night—he was wearing dark glasses. Reflective dark glasses.