It was now the dead heat of summer, windless and stagnant. Zelle had been spending her days in rehearsal for another autumn tour, and consequently Dunbar had a lot of time to kill, some of which he would spend with Gray over afternoon drinks.

They usually met in one of the more atmospheric cafes along the Left Bank. Dunbar always arrived early, always overdressed. On the first afternoon they discussed Oxford, where Dunbar explained that he had fared badly his freshman year, failing to do himself justice on Ovid's Metamorphoses. Gray, who couldn't seem to recall a thing about the place except a vague impression of shuttered lanes and the bells of Christ Church, found himself muttering whatever seemed appropriate.

From Oxford they moved on to art and politics, discussing both without real conviction. Next came the theater, then at last they came around to Zelle.

"You know she's awfully fond of you," Dunbar said. "In quite a marvelous way."

"She seems fond of you too," Gray said, "in quite an obvious way."

"Yes, but I sometimes wonder if yours isn't the safer route— emotionally speaking, that is."

Gray looked at him. They had ordered wine as a prelude to champagne, but after several glasses he still remained too conscious of everything.

"It's not that I'm complaining," Dunbar went on. "It's just that I don't always know where she stands, if you get my point."

"Oh I think so." Gray smiled, wondering if the waiter could possibly bring him a brandy, and in a hurry.

"Then, too, there's the question of patience," Dunbar added. "I mean she can be infuriating, can't she?"

She can be infuriating, can't she? It was the first time that Gray had ever heard the man express dissatisfaction with Zelle, the first tiny crack in the glass. Yet not reading what probably should have been obvious, he thought nothing of it at the time.

Following that afternoon by the river, there were five days of relative calm. Dunbar spent the time leisurely, touring the Louvre and the Luxembourg Gardens. In the evenings he and Zelle either dined alone on the Champs Élysées or with friends in the artists' cafes. Although Gray eventually joined them on a number of occasions, he would specifically recall only the first . . .

It was a torpid night, the city might have been fixed beneath a bell jar. What had looked like fog turned out to be industrial fumes, and the back streets were mostly deserted. On Zelle's suggestion they dined in one of the Russian cafes where friends from the neighborhood tended to gather. The food was only mediocre, but there were always violinists in the gallery.

From the start there was something discordant about that night. Even before the cocktails had arrived, Dunbar was sent on some menial errand, only to be rewarded with a deprecating smile. Next there were comments concerning his clothing and his hopelessly English perspective. Nor was she pleased with his choice of wine.