A week passed before he saw her again, and from these days are four drawings of her seated in a cane chair. Her dress is black, and her hair, drawn tightly back, gives her face an unaccustomed degree of severity. The eyes are fixed on the naked form of a boy at her feet. There is no sense of affection; and her hand, reaching for the boy's leg, seems to be a foreign object . . .

Yet when he finally saw her again his private vision almost seemed absurd; she actually appeared quite pretty in a simple and innocent way. Her hair was loosely tied with a ribbon, her eyes were accented with only a hint of shadow. Nor was the conversation even remotely sinister—merely a discussion concerning her forthcoming tour.

She said that she would be performing for at least seven weeks, including eight nights in Vienna. She said that the money was by no means grand but one could always use the exposure. Finally she mentioned that Dunbar would be accompanying her to help with the practical arrangements. Gray said, with less emotion than he felt, that Dunbar, a practical fellow, ought to be a real help, what with his firm grasp of numbers.

It was about eight o'clock when they separated, and what had opened as a wretched day ended rather beautifully. The sky was pink and cloudless with a white moon above the apartment blocks. The crowds were gradually thinning except along the tram stops. Yet, to have a final impression of this evening, Gray briefly paused at the edge of the square for a last glimpse of her. She was standing at the curbstone to receive an arriving cab. Dunbar was apparently leaning from inside; and although her eyes were unreadable, the smile was familiar enough.

They left on a Monday, a clear day under a white sky. The leaves had still not turned but there was a distinct sense of summer's end. Although Gray did not actually see them off at the station, he was able to envision the event clearly enough: while Dunbar supervised the porters, Zelle waved exuberantly from the step.

As always, the first week was the worst, and Gray spent it either working furiously or sitting with friends in crowded cafes. Yet even a thousand miles away one could never really forget her, for in those days when her fame was still at its peak there were constantly reminders in the newspapers. The initial reviews reached Paris in October, and it seemed the critics also loved her.

But what finally left the most lasting impression was a letter, not from Zelle but from Dunbar. It arrived mid-October on an otherwise ordinary day. Gray had spent the morning sketching fishermen below Pont Neuf, then returning to his room in the afternoon, he found the thing tacked to his door: six carefully handwritten pages from the Bristol Hotel in Vienna.