Gray poured a second glass of rum. "He's having lunch with Zelle."

"So? He takes a lot of women to lunch. Maxim's, a table is always reserved."

"He's also the one who bought my portrait of her."

De Massloff looked sternly at him. "You know, Nicky, jealousy can be very boring."

They parted at dusk, the restless hour when the streets were filled with clerks and typists moving to the Metro. For several blocks Gray simply followed these crowds, only half conscious that he had no place to go but home, nothing else to do but wait for her.

She returned just after eight in the evening. He was sitting at the easel, staring at a still life. He had lined the empty bottles on the sill beside a pear and a slice of bread. Closer, he realized that she still smelled faintly of the colonel's cigar. Still closer, she kept avoiding his eyes.

"So how was it?"

She sighed, a bit too dramatically, he thought.

"Tiresome."

"Where did he take you?"

She hesitated as if she couldn't remember. "Maxim's."

"Well, at least the food must have been good."

"I suppose," but in a tone of voice she had obviously picked up at the salons.

"What did you talk about?"

She stepped to the mirror, unpinning her hair. "War. The poor man is convinced that there's going to be a war with the Germans."

He took a deep breath. "Must have been fascinating."

He watched her for a while, drawing back the curtains, frowning at the fog that still drifted in from the river. She took off her ring, a worthless piece she had picked up in Java. He loved her hands.

"Anyway," she finally sighed, "I'm tired. Yes, very tired."

But when he looked again she was seated at the mirror, vigorously brushing her hair.

"Margaretha?"

"Yes, darling," not breaking the stride of her brush.

"Margaretha, did you sleep with him?"

"Oh really, Nicky."

"Did you?"

"Nicky, why would I possibly want—"

"Did you sleep with him?"

"Yes," as her hair continued to spread out under the brush.

Yes. There was sitll a little Burgundy on a sideboard, still a clean glass on the table. The first drink tasted like turpentine, the second like nothing. "Why?"

When she shrugged her hair fell across her eyes. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"It's the money, isn't it? You're in love with his stinking money."

She was watching him in the mirror again, eyes like water under static clouds. "You just don't understand, Nicky. You don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"Me . . . Me."