They spent the night in an inn just east of Saint Omer. There were only inconspicuous signs of war here: a hospital for the shell shocked, abandoned trucks, an occasional cripple. There were also no lights and the landscape was pitch dark. The food, however, seemed reassuring: sausages, beer, and a beet stew.

At first they dined in silence, their eyes fixed on their plates. Earlier that evening it had occurred to Gray that the farther he moved away from the front the less substantial he became. After a while war was the only reality. Fifty, sixty miles from the trenches and one hardly existed at all.

Hooper said something, a feeble attempt at conversation because he obviously couldn't handle Gray's hostile silence: "I understand that you lived in Paris before the war."

Several beats before Gray even looked at him. "Yes, I was in Paris."

"Painter, wasn't it?"

"Yes, painter."

"Well, it must have been lovely."

"Huh?"

"To have been an artist in Paris—what a life, eh?"

Gray laid down his knife and fork. Hooper's eyes were like the button eyes on a stuffed bear—virtually shining with enthusiasm.

Finally Gray said, "You're from the back room, aren't you?"

"Back room?"

"You're one of those idiots from the M.I. group."

The button eyes grew slightly duller, the mouth a little pinched. "Look, we're only going to be together another day. Can't you at least make an effort to be civil?"

They left shortly after dawn. The sky remained flat blue until the coast, where the fogbanks lay. They boarded one of the commercial steamers, a gray thing from another era. The decks were jammed with frightened women scanning the water for torpedoes.

After two or three whiskys in a second-class bar, Gray also moved up to the deck. Although most faces seemed pinched and drawn, there was one rather beautiful girl. She stood at the stern, watching the widening furrow for a while, then left him with a profile . . . almost as perfect as Zelle's. Zelle. He felt her presence in the water, felt it descending with the wheeling gulls, all confirming what he had suspected for years: Zelle was like a tropical storm—there were always small signs in the stillness preceding her arrival.

They landed at Dover, where another car and driver were waiting beyond the customs house. The driver was a lean sergeant with a chipped face, reminiscent of Sykes. He spoke softly to Hooper, said nothing to Gray. The fog had gathered all along the waterfront, slowing the trucks from the factories.