Sheila paused, as if to punish Monica. Yes, she would have a cup of coffee, black. No: make that a glass of white wine—if Monica had any of the Algerian left.

She sat, she crossed her legs, lit a cigarette, brought up yet again, as if out of habit, the subject of Morocco, Tangier, a trip along the Nile—she and Morton had taken the river cruise once, early on in their marriage, it had been a profound experience, Monica would certainly enjoy it. After the pressure of Sheila’s show was over she would need a change of scene, at least.

“That’s true,” Monica said uneasily. “But I can’t join you.”

Sheila stayed less than twenty minutes and had only a single glass of wine. She looked tired and confused; she looked her age. On her way out, zipping up her grimy quilted jacket, winding a blood-red mohair scarf around her neck (one of the few gifts of Monica’s she had condescended to find a use for), she said, suddenly, that Monica should be aware of the fact that the Academy was exploiting her. Did she know? Or didn’t she want to know? “The world is filled with people eager to drain your blood from you if you allow them,” Sheila said mysteriously. “And you’re the kind of woman, Monica—I saw this from the start—who isn’t capable of protecting herself.”

Monica managed a reply, half irritated, half amused.

She was quite capable of protecting herself, she said.

Sheila strode out to her horse, her handsome burnished Parsifal, she mounted him, too proud, or too indifferent, suddenly, to glance back at Monica. And Monica stood in the doorway, shivering, stubborn, refusing to call out good-bye. (Yet it would be no trouble, in fact it would be a delight, to cancel her evening with Keith, to prepare a casserole dinner for Sheila and herself, or some chili—Sheila was inordinately fond of chili—and set her alarm for six in the morning so she could finish her work then. It would be no trouble, in fact it would be a delight. . . .)

She said nothing. She stood in the doorway, shivering, watching, as soft wet clumps of snow fell, blossom-sized clumps, in utter silence. Precisely when horse and rider disappeared into the falling snow—along the lane, by the edge of the woods—she could not have said.