Then he heard the voice from behind: "I say, that's rather interesting. Mind if I take a closer look?"

He turned, but since the light was still low between the tenements he only saw another blackened outline: a homburg and overcoat.

"Yes, that's most impressive. Tell me, have you been studying long?"

Gray mumbled something about a year, two years.

"Well, I think your work is remarkable."

He gave the stranger a watery smile. "Thank you."

"It reminds me of, oh I don't know, certain things I've seen in Berlin."

"Berlin?"

"Yes, the new modernists." He sat down and offered Gray a cigarette—English and expensive. "You know, I think I've seen you working around here before."

Gray shrugged. "It's possible."

"But I had no idea that your work was so ... so mature. You never studied in Germany, did you?"

"No."

"Then it was Oxford, right?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. But in the end I suppose Paris is really the place to be, isn't it?"

"So they say."

Leaning a little closer, Gray could finally see the face, the pencil moustache, the thin lips. He might have been a clerk on holiday, or any lonely Englishman in Paris, except that the eyes seemed too eager, too probing.

"Tell me, would it be terribly forward of me if I asked to purchase one of your works? I’ll give you a very decent price for it."

"How much?"

"Well, whatever you think it's worth."

So he tore the thing out of his sketchbook and handed it over. "Here. Keep it."

"You mean as a gift? But I couldn't."

"I want you to have it."

"Well, then at least let me take you to lunch."

He said his name was Anthony Craven and Paris was a holiday, the first in years. He worked in a London bank, he said, and lived with his mother in Chelsea. Beyond that he talked about art, while Gray simply nodded and responded to questions. No, he was not familiar with the young Spanish moderns. Yes, he was very fond of Goya.

At Craven's request they returned to Gray's studio for a broader view of the artist's work. Then, while Gray laid out all those botched landscapes, Craven kept up a litany of praise: "Oh that's truly lovely ... oh yes, that's wonderful..." Until he finally found his way to the darkest corner of the room and a charcoal sketch of Zelle. "And I do fancy this one very much."

"Mmm?"

"This girl." He pulled it off the wall to examine it by the light. "Yes, she is magnificent."

Gray shrugged. He had never intended to display Margaretha. "She's just an early model."

"Yes, but she's stunning. I say, do you possibly think—"

"No, that one isn't for sale."