They spent the remainder of that evening walking, strolling along the more obscure lanes between stunted pines and the banks of a pond. Against the reverberation of crickets, conversation seemed pointless, so they sat side by side on a bench—her hand lightly pressed on his again. Seeing that his values were still clearly traditional, she eventually left him with only a glancing kiss, her lips momentarily brushing his under those fantastic elms.

She met him next on a Tuesday, arriving on foot in a simple skirt and blouse. They spent the first hour in the National Gallery, then moved out to the gardens, then into a coffee house to escape the rain. Conversation remained trivial, with anecdotes from Dunbar's childhood and memories from summers along the coast; and through it all Zelle would laugh and smile, reach and withdraw, like an angler deftly playing a trout in cold water . . .

She brought him to her room about midnight, after a great deal of champagne. She sat him in a chair with a glass of mineral water, then slipped into a simple frock. A veil tossed over a lampshade turned the room to a deeper blue. A scented candle on the mantle cut the smell of damp.

He had mentioned that he wasn't feeling well, but she ignored it and led him to the bed. She slipped off his shoes, his tie, his waistcoat, and his shirt, and told him to lie down. His body was soft and pale, like a child's. His chest was smooth, almost hairless. Although the air was fairly cool through an open window, he had already begun to perspire.

She played with him, seated in a chair beside the bed. She let her finger drift across his thighs in lazy circles, then lower, gently caressing with the tip of one finger, then only with the nail. He responded with a long sigh, rolling back his eyes and rising to meet her touch. She replied with a half nod and a knowing smile.

When the play was over she had still not undressed, still had not spoken. His body was wet with perspiration, the heartbeat a visible shudder. An earlier wind had died, leaving only the warm torpor of this night on the cusp of summer.

"I should go," he said. "It's late."

She shook her head and moved to the dressing table. "No, it's not late."

There were bottles of perfume on the table, and she picked one up at random—an expensive but unsubtle German scent.

She was still examining the label when he softly called her name, "Margaretha, let me take you back to London."

She smiled, fully aware of his imploring eyes in the mirror. "London?"

"We'll have a smashing time, I promise."

She put down the perfume, crossed the room and gently kissed him on the forehead. "But I don't want to go to London." "Why not?"

"Because I don't believe they'll like me there."

"But of course they will."