Away from the easel, life had also lost its complex dimensions, suggesting his first eighteen months in this city. He spent evenings with Vadime de Massloff, and occasionally rode the omnibus in search of new perspectives. Eventually there were even periods (particularly toward the end of October) when it seemed that he had actually survived the worst of it—as far as Zelle was concerned, he had actually managed to survive. His life, laid out before him in momentary glimpses, still seemed reasonably bright. He tended to envision himself in some quaint London suburb working with oils and concentrating on landscapes. His neighbors, simple but kind people, would see him as a mild eccentric who had almost lived the life that everyone dreamed about . . . and if certain young women found him attractive he might finally consent to paint them too.

These then were the visions that consoled him through that autumn, the rainy-day thoughts that kept him from fixating on Zelle. At one point he even went so far as to inquire about outlying property in Berkshire, then spent an afternoon with The Times. But in the end, of course, there was to be no escape, not in England, not in France, no real escape . . .

It was a Friday when Dunbar's telegram arrived, one of the first cold days of the year. The sky was gray, the gutters filled with frost, and suddenly from nowhere: Arriving eight o'clock, gare Saint-Lazare.

Had Gray followed his instincts, he might have torn the message up, bolted the door, and drawn the curtains. But instead he simply waited, seated by a window with the first hard drink he'd had in days. Then around dusk he went down to the streets. It only took a moment to find a vacant cab.

The station was cold with damp air from the rafters. Voices seemed remote against the rattle of incoming trains. It was half past the hour when Dunbar appeared: one more figure in the steam. He was alone, badly dressed in expensive clothing, searching, as always, for his luggage.

Night had turned even colder with a chilled rain. There was also a north wind, driving pedestrians from the streets. Because Dunbar had not booked a hotel room, Gray had no alternative but to bring the man home. It was cold here too, but neither seemed to notice.

Their first moments together were strained with long silences and unanswered questions. Gray had poured two glasses of cheap sherry while Dunbar studied the more recent drawings on the wall. He seemed particularly interested in three portraits of Zelle: sitting, reclining, and fixed at still another mirror.

"These are new, aren't they?" he said.

Gray nodded. His voice was cautious. "Yes, those are fairly new."

"Well, I definitely like them. In fact should you ever want to sell them—"

"What happened, Charles?"

"Hmm?"

"What happened with Margaretha?"