And now a dog came up from the blue hall, a black dog, black as the Trinidads, and with a carven head, and it put itself into the space where the women's bodies had left a little gap.

Ruth looked at the dog. "May I touch him?"

"Oh, he's fine," said the beautiful girl.

Ruth put out her hand, and the dog permitted her to stroke his forehead. He gazed at her, but that was all.

James had left the Datsun all soapy. He walked up the path, grinning and friendly.

"What's up, Pearl?"

"You come in now," said Delilah Trinidad to Ruth. "Come in. We think about it."

The two women leaned together unconsciously. Their bodies had once been one, and not forgotten. Love. There was love.

And the young man on the path, with the sponge in his hand, amused, tender. Love, also.

Somewhere in the house a child happily laughed. The dog smiled and panted.

"There go the baby," said Delilah.

Ruth took a step back.

"I made a mistake," said Ruth.

She turned, and walked away from them. She looked very small, and truly black, the black of the dark and the shadow and the night.

Delilah watched Ruth go, her eyes wide and sad.

"Poor chile," she said. "Poor little girl."

Something like Ancient Egypt, night river water, and fire. But it was only the Thames at its most muddy, and a bonfire of refuse up on the bank, under the derelict warehouses, keeping three tramps warm.

The sun had died on the river like a broken egg. The barges passed, and miles up were the rusty docks, and farther the big white ship with the fancy name.

But here it got cold.

There had to be a fire, even in summer.

"Look," said Jimbo, "poor little bird."

"You let it be," said Sedge.

And deep in his drink of sour red wine, Baldy said nothing at all.

But Jimbo had had a daughter once, in another life, and finally he got up and crept along the bank toward the small dark girl.

"Here," said Jimbo, "here, girlie. D'ya want to come down to the fire? We won't hurt ya."

The girl turned a white face with dark lips and eyes.

"No, thank you."

"It's warm. It's better. The fire keeps the rats off."

"No."

And down the incline, Sedge stood up by the fire in his cardboard raincoat, and he bellowed. Sedge was a devil. He would not share.

Jimbo left the girl and went back, and Sedge seized his arm as if he would kill him.

"Leave her alone I said."

"But she's just a kid."

"The streets of London," said Sedge, "are paved with child." He sometimes said these things. He pulled Jimbo down. "Bad. She's bad."

And Baldy hiccuped, and passed the wine.