Yet with Zelle in Paris the man was shy and solicitous. He was generally content to let her hang on his arm and whisper in his ear. On occasion he would even let her speak for him, smiling while she was saying such things as, “Oh, but Charles drinks champagne at all hours,” or "Charles doesn't care for the Germans one bit." For his own part Gray knew better than to interrupt while Mata Hari was displaying a new lover.

It was a warm night, and after supper Margaretha insisted that they take a walk. After an hour on the boulevard she led them to a terrace for still more champagne and light conversation. When she excused herself for the powder room, Gray for the first time found himself alone with Dunbar. It was obviously a calculated move, possibly even prearranged.

"Margaretha tells me that you were her first Parisian friend," Dunbar began.

"Yes," Gray said, "I suppose I was."

"And wasn't there also a photographer? A Russian chap?"

"De Massloff."

"That's right, Vadime de Massloff. I understand that she was very fond of him as well. A bit of a character, but fun."

"Yes, fun."

A waiter appeared with champagne and plates of oysters on a bed of ice. The view through the laurels was also reminiscent of earlier days, with ranks of cabs along the curbstones and wandering violinists.

"I imagine it really must have been something ..."

"Hmm?"

"That first spring in Paris," Dunbar said.

"Yes, it was something."

"And you still find it stimulating? The city, I mean."

Gray lit a cigarette, inhaling. "I suppose."

"But surely you must miss England occasionally. I know I would."

Gray shrugged with the thought that they might have been in England now, whispering in the darkness of some wretched boys' dormitory, exchanging secrets and bits of chocolate. "No, I can't say that I miss England now."

"Well, then I suppose I envy you. I mean, to have made such a clean break of it all. Don't think I'd have the courage, really."

Then give it a week, Gray could have told him. Give it a month, give it another few nights with Zelle.

She returned with an orchid that she must have snatched from a vacant table. She wouldn't touch the oysters but accepted more champagne. It was late, and the parties were dispersing along the garden paths. Exhausted waiters were chatting among themselves.

"You like him, don't you?" she told Gray after Dunbar had been dismissed to secure a cab. "I mean, within limits you do like him, don't you?"

He mumbled a civil lie. "Of course."

"Then it's settled! I'm appointing you his guardian."

He looked at her. "Guardian?"

"Well, you're both English, aren't you? Besides, he's filthy rich, which should make it fun for all three of us."