She went to him on Sunday, a little after the visiting hour. There was a full moon above the factory roofs, a warm breeze bringing odors of damp brick and coal. Beyond a residential neighborhood, the cafes were filled with students from the local academy, speaking softly over tankards of beer. As an unescorted woman in black, she suspected they were discussing her —but she didn't care. Still farther along the Kantstrasse she passed the sort of common prostitutes who were forever underestimating their power over men, regardless of whether they met them in a beer hall or a suite at the Esplanade.

She entered the lobby at half past eight, passing a note to a bellboy. Someone emerging from a reading room tried to catch her eye, but she ignored him. The lounge was appointed with potted palms and a vase of sulphur roses. She never doubted for a moment that her Englishman would come.

She saw him first on the staircase, looking somewhat bewildered in a dinner jacket, with a shy smile and child's eyes. In the lamplight he looked a little shorter than she remembered, his hair a little thinner. But closer she realized that nothing had changed, and although he took her hand he didn't have the confidence to kiss it.

"I was afraid that you had already returned to London," she told him.

A shy grin. "Well, as you can see ..."

"Yes, as I can see." She turned so that the light would not accentuate the bruise on her cheek. "And now perhaps we'll have some time together."

He wet his lips, glancing back to the staircase. "But I thought you were—"

"No longer."

They wandered out to a formal garden of junipers and sculptured hedgerows. She slipped her arm through his, casually brushing his thigh with her wrist. Then along a mossy path she broke away, calling, "Don't you simply adore the fragrance, Mr. Dunbar? Don't you simply adore it?"

He finally caught up with her under a trailing wisteria. It was dark here, and the odors were basic: wet soil, leaf mould, and her perfume.

"I don't suppose you'd care to dine with me?" he said, almost in a whisper, although they were alone.

She smiled, but looked away as if distracted by the flowering hydrangea. "Tonight?"

"If you're available, that is."

"Where?"

"Wherever you like?"

She stepped closer, almost touching him again. "Someplace extravagant?"

They dined on a terrace above the Tiergarten lanes, not far from where she had originally seen him. He ordered brill in white butter sauce and a small flotilla of lobsters. They talked about England, and about simple existence in the countryside with horses, vast lawns, and croquet. In response to another reference concerning capital investments abroad, she ran a forefinger along his wrist—back and forth, back and forth.