“You pass out after your fan announces that you were adequate, but Mary Pickford did both the Old and New Testaments in blood, and that she’s going to be nursing you back to health from her new post at the Red Cross. That’s the end, the close-up on your face with your mouth an exact little ‘O’ of horror.”

He sighed, “I should give you a raise.”

“I don’t work for you, though.”

“Even better. I can just use it, and if you ask for money, I can turn you over my knee and spank you.”

He could hardly believe he’d said it. But she hadn’t run away. She hadn’t even blushed. Instead, she took a dainty sip of her drink. “You could try to spank me. If you’re good, I’ll show you the closet in which I keep the larger, faster, more skillful men who tried before you.”

The party seemed much noisier than it had a moment before. Could people talk like this? What would happen if they did?

“Oh,” she whispered, “those blue eyes a poor girl could drown in. Who would ever save me? May I tell you a secret?”

He nodded. They were as hushed as conspirators.

“You look like Donatello’s David.”

He felt confused excitement, pleasure at a compliment, but mostly he wanted to correct her. “Michelangelo.”

“No, you don’t look like Michelangelo’s David. You look like Dona tello’s. That one is smaller and more graceful and sensual, not the slab of masculinity dropped from the heavens. I like Donatello’s David. He has a soft hat, and his hips are cocked to the side like a girl’s. He would like to be worshipped but would also be grateful for a kind word.”

“Frances?”

“Speaking.”

“Not Francesca or Frangipani or—”

“Not unless something drastic changes.”

“Now, was that so hard?”

“It took you many, many hours to say my name, so apparently yes.” She took a sip of her drink.

“Will the next phase involve flaming hoops, Frances?”

“I’m not generally this mean to people.”

“You have a wit about you.”

“But generally I use it constructively. With you, I just want to be so mean.” She looked about to see if they were unobserved, and she whispered, “But there was a turning point for me. Finding out you were an iconoclastic cynosure.”

“I’m—” Apparently, he could still go red.

“A fungible cyclothymiac who believes in hegemony as a casus belli.” She shook her head. “That is so …”

She not only had his words, which was awful enough, but knew how to turn them into adjectives if necessary. She was terrifying. They were both quietly aware of what was going to happen next.

“Charlie, I still have your pen here. I think I also have something to write on.”

“That’s all right.”

“Little postcards. We could try to find a pen-knife. Maybe I could hurt you.”