I remember the enchanted expression on Alfred de Marigny’s face, and how I thought, with remarkable detachment, He’s a goner.

Sir Harry Oakes claimed the first dance with his daughter, of course, but when he returned her to the table she grabbed de Marigny’s hand and said something to him, I don’t know what. Whatever it was, it acted as a signal. He stubbed out his cigarette, rose and led her to the floor, or maybe she led him, I don’t recall exactly. I returned to my champagne and drank it all in one marvelous gulp. Across the room, the duke drew his wife from her seat and led her to dance. I checked my watch and saw that the supper wasn’t going to be served for at least another couple of hours.

I knew I should turn to my left-hand companion and strike up some kind of conversation. I knew I should engage with my fellow man, cadge a dance or two from my fellow man—why, it was part of my job, wasn’t it? I was on duty. The social event of the season, don’t you know, and a breathless America awaited my account of the evening. The violins sang, the trombones slid up and down, up and down. The air stank of cigarettes and perfume. Thank God it wasn’t July, I thought. I opened my evening purse and pulled out my Kodak 35. The duchess wore a long, beautifully draped Mainbocher gown of sapphire blue; the duke swept her around the edge of the dancers. She was smiling, had her head tilted back. How she loved to dance, that woman. I lifted the camera and waited patiently until they came into profile through the split finder, aligned, and snap. And again. Next to me, a stoutish, pink-faced man in a wilted collar glanced my way and stubbed out his cigarette, as if he meant business. I excused myself and pivoted toward the doorway, stuffing the camera back into my purse as I went.

Outside, the air reeked of the sea. I made for the beach, which belonged to the hotel and in daylight hours would be spangled with cabanas and umbrellas. Now it was empty and sort of mysterious, the sand unraked, forming cool hollows in which to lose your foot. I took off my shoes and stepped carefully, carefully, until I found just the spot and settled there, in my dress of wine-colored silk, and lit a cigarette while the waves lapped nearby. In the western sky, a half-moon glowed above the horizon, gilding the length of Hog Island before me. The lighthouse put out a faithful beam to the left. The universe beat its slow, thirsty pulse.

I heard the footsteps in the sand an instant before the voice called out, closer than I expected.

“Abandoning hope so soon?”

I closed my eyes.