“Max,” she said. “You’re not actually going to give them that? Is that wise?”

“Almost certainly not. I’m going to risk it though.” He caught her eye. “At dinner—you noticed the frisson?”

“I did. It was maybe a one-sided frisson, but it was there.”

“It can’t hurt to cultivate it.”

“Max. You told me not to match-make. You said I shouldn’t interfere…”

“I know.” He kissed her neck.

“Rowland will talk if you give him that. He’ll talk all night, and all tomorrow as well.”

“I like Rowland when he talks. So do you.”

“Will Lindsay though?” Charlotte gave him a glance. “And don’t think I didn’t see you earlier, Max, before the cocktail guests arrived, whispering in Lindsay’s ear.”

“I was not whispering. I was just mentioning things in a casual sort of way.”

“You mentioned Rowland’s girls, didn’t you? Max, look me in the eye!”

“Just in passing. It can’t hurt her to know. It is true, after all.” He held the port to the light appreciatively. “What’s more, you remember what you said about the perversity of women? You were right. The instant I told her, I spotted it. A distinct gleam in the eye.” He paused. “Why are women that way, incidentally? Why is your sex so weird? Rowland’s reputation ought to make any sensible woman run a mile—”

“Max, go and give them that damn Fonseca. One glass only might be prudent. Oh—and make Gini’s a double.”

“You don’t serve doubles of port,” Max said fondly, “as you well know.”

“Then give her a damn big glass. I may love her dearly, but she’s tried calling Pascal six times this evening, and she’s driving me mad.”

This plot was foiled. Gini, along with Charlotte, refused the Fonseca. Rowland made a brief eloquent speech as to its glories when he was only halfway through his glass. Lindsay, to whom alcohol was alcohol, useful when nervous, drank her glass unwisely, very fast.

At eleven forty-five the telephone rang. Gini, who had been talking to Rowland in a desultory fashion, half rose from her chair. Color washed into her face and throat; Rowland moved away. As Charlotte went to take the call in Max’s den, Rowland took down a book from Max’s shelves and began reading. Gini waited on the edge of her chair.

When Charlotte returned, she found she could not meet Gini’s eyes.

“Lindsay, it’s that blasted Markov man,” she said quickly. “He says he has to talk to you. He’s calling on his car phone. From Paris.”

Lindsay rose, sighing. She trotted through to Max’s study and picked up the telephone.

“Will you listen to this?” Markov said without preamble. “I mean, will you just check this out? Is this poetry? Is this insight? Yes or no?” He held the phone close to his car’s stereo speakers. The recording, which Lindsay could hear only too well, was an old one. It was “My Foolish Heart.”

“Markov,” Lindsay said with force, Fonseca coursing through her veins. “Who gave you this number? Louise? It’s midnight, Markov. It was a lousy record the first time I heard it. It’s still a lousy record now.”