“She was here until ten the other night, going over mailing lists,” the owner told him. “You have to respect that.”

A few days later, Charlie asked her to lunch, to meet a collector he knew. The collector was impressed.

“She seems very good,” he remarked afterward. “And behind those glasses …” He grinned. “I see burning fires.”

“You think so?” said Charlie.

“You haven’t tried?”

“Hmm,” said Charlie, “not yet.”

Perhaps, he supposed, he could be her mentor.

When it happened, it was by chance. He was walking back from a meeting one evening and realized he was close to the gallery. On impulse, seeing the lights on, he looked in. Sarah was there alone. She looked pleased when she saw him.

“I was about to close up.”

“I just happened to be passing. Thought I’d look at the space again.”

“Go right ahead.”

There were two rooms. He went into the second one, and stood there, looking around the walls.

“You want more light?” she called.

“No. Thanks. I’ll be getting home now. What are you doing this evening?”

“Actually, I have a friend who’s in a little theater group. They’re putting something on this evening—I don’t even know what it is—but I promised I’d go.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Maybe. Want to come?”

He paused, hesitant. “It’s been a while since I went to a theater group.” He smiled. “Why not?”

The theater was in the West Village. To be precise, it was a basement in a brownstone. There were two or three young people on the sidewalk. One of them had a mug of coffee. The door of the basement, however, was closed. There was a piece of paper pinned on it which said: “No performance tonight.”

“Great,” said Sarah.

“Maybe they didn’t have an audience,” said Charlie.

“That doesn’t stop them,” said the man with the mug of coffee. “Julian was sick.”

“What about Mark?” said Sarah.

“He had a quarrel with Helga.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” said the man, helpfully.

“I’m so sorry,” said Sarah to Charlie. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“The situation is familiar to me,” said Charlie easily. “Shall we get something to eat?”

They walked through the Village, looking at cafés and restaurants. They found a small Italian trattoria, ordered Chianti and bowls of pasta. Charlie grinned.

“I feel as if I were in my twenties again.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” she said.

While they ate, they talked about music. He told her where the best places were to hear jazz in the city. She told him about her luck in getting the apartment in the Village. After the pasta they had a crème caramel dessert.

“Do you ever walk about in the Village?” she asked, when they were done.

“Yes. Why?”

“I feel like walking.”

“All right.”

The little streets were quite busy; the restaurants weren’t short of custom. Charlie wasn’t sure where the evening was going, or where he wanted it to go. He felt a little awkward. They passed a little place where the tables were set for playing chess. Several men were sitting there, looking very solemn. The waiters brought them drinks from time to time.