"Are you feeling well?" she asked. "You look tired." In fact he looked half dead, with dark circles around his eyes and a gray pallor.

"It's my nerves. My nerves are bad."

"Well, you know what they recommend for that—cocoa. I shall make you some nice hot cocoa."

He grunted, waving her off with his hand. "Just get me a brandy, Margaretha. A big one."

She gave it to him in a smudged glass without looking, then settled to the floor at his feet. On better afternoons they had been able to sit like this for hours while Kierpert drank himself into oblivion.

"I received a letter today," she said casually. "From my agent."

He gave her a look that she had seen before: Your personal affairs hardly interest me.

"There's talk of an engagement."

He mumbled some reply but obviously couldn't have cared less.

"In fact I think they want me to dance in Madrid again," which wasn't altogether true, but she rather liked the sound of it: They want me in Madrid again.

"Madrid is a cesspool."

"Yes, but there's still the money to consider."

"What money? You don't need money. I give you money."

On another afternoon, in another mood, she would not have even bothered to respond. His notions of women and life had always been impossible to counter. Yet today she couldn't seem to conjure up that demure and passive dancer for him. She couldn't even pretend. "Just the same, darling, I think I'll give it a try. Yes, I think I'll definitely give it a try."

"Get me another drink, Margaretha."

"I don't think you understand, darling."

"Of course I understand. Now get me another drink."

"I'd be leaving on the fifteenth."

"The drink, Margaretha. I want another drink."

"Difficult to say how long I'd be gone."

He reached for her shoulder, absently running his finger along her collarbone. Then suddenly grabbing her hair, he twisted her head back. "The drink, Margaretha? Get me the drink."

"You're hurting me."

"The drink."

She crossed the room without speaking. The decanter had been left on the mantle, but her hands were shaking so badly that she had to move it to the table in order to avoid a mess. Then returning to his chair, she couldn't seem to raise her eyes ... until she faced him, motionless, the glass of brandy in her left hand.

"Now give it to me, Margaretha. Give it to me."

She must have waited two or three seconds before tossing the stuff in his face. For another second or two neither moved. Finally Kierpert rose, slapping her across the face. She reeled back, screaming at him as he slapped her again, full force, back-handed. The third blow left her sobbing on her knees, her robe parted to the thigh, a trace of blood in the corner of her mouth.

"A drink, Margaretha." His voice was firm but soft: the soldier addressing an errant child. "Fetch me a drink."