When she was gone he went to the window and inched back the curtain for a last look. It was an automatic gesture, as close to fear as a free-fall from the balcony ... or as his eventual response to the colonel's invitation.

The colonel's apartment was on the boulevard Saint-Germain, a fashionable gray-stone in ivy. Past the wrought-iron gates were rows of clipped trees and a circle of white gravel. Two waiting servants stood at the gates, a third attended to the carriage.

It was half past nine when Gray arrived: he glanced at a cheap watch he had purchased to replace the watch she had given him. She greeted him at the foot of the steps, as did the scent of her perfume —clearly expensive. Inside were flesh-colored walls, a vase of dried violets, and groves of enormous furniture.

"I thought perhaps you and the colonel might have a drink together before dinner," she told him. ". . .I thought perhaps that would be best . . ."

He lit a cigarette, an exotic blend he had snatched from the drawing-room table. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs in his library."

The corridor was dark with only faint light from beneath the last door. He paused before knocking, then heard a languid voice telling him to enter. In mottled shadows the colonel was hardly more than a shadow himself poised by an open window.

"Drink?"

"Thank you."

He filled two glasses from a small decanter on the rosewood, a rare cognac. "I generally reserve this for myself."

A real gentleman. And altogether French. "Yes, it's very good."

"Margaretha prefers champagne, but a soldier only drinks champagne when there's nothing else."

He got up from his chair and swept aside the drapes. "Do you enjoy the darkness, Mr. Gray?"

Gray shrugged, waiting for his cigarette ash to ruin the rug. "Sometimes."

"Well, I've always loved the darkness," and now as a silhouette against the panes, he seemed much taller than before, the hair a richer silver.

They sat in silence for a moment, the colonel's magnificent silence, with the colonel's magnificent cognac that he usually kept for himself. "Tell me, Mr. Gray. Were you surprised to receive my invitation?"

"Surprised?"

"Or did you think this was Margaretha's idea?"

He cocked his head with an equivocal smile. What he thought was that he shouldn't have come.

"Because it wasn't Margaretha's idea. It was mine."

"Oh."

"You see, although I don't regret winning her affection, I would hate to think that you dislike me. Particularly in view of your future."

"My future?"

"As an artist. A painter. Now, I have always been a great lover of the arts, and have always regarded it as an honor to help a budding talent. Which is precisely why I've asked you here tonight. You see, I would like you to paint me."

Gray helped himself to the next glass. "You want me to do your portrait?"