Dunbar shrugged. "Nothing. A lot." His eyes settled on another portrait, an early nude in crayon. "And I like this very much indeed."

"You've seen it before."

"Have I? Well, I can't say that I remember. And I would have remembered, because it's really quite stunning."

"What happened, Charles?"

He shrugged again. "I'll tell you some rainy day."

"It's raining now."

They sat in an alcove facing the rooftops again. Gray had set the bottle of sherry on the floor, and as the rain died the familiar night sounds returned: pigeons stirring under the eaves, the cries of cats. Then it began, a slow monologue of Dunbar's first week abroad with Margaretha.

They had arrived in Monte Carlo on a Wednesday, he said. Zelle had been disappointed that no one of importance had met them at the station. There had also been difficulties with her luggage, and the Grand Hotel had been unable to provide a suite. In the evening they dined with some odious Hungarian and two shadowy characters that Zelle had met in the casino.

There was a change, Dunbar explained, a gradual change in Zelle the moment she reached Monte Carlo. Presumably she was there to discuss her role as Cleopatra in a production of Antar. There had also been some talk about a series of private performances at three thousand francs a night. For the most part, however, she spent her time with gentlemen she met at random, often around the tables. Dunbar was rarely asked to join the party, and the excuse was always the same: these were influential men with a real capability to help an artist. They were not, however, entirely free from personal fantasies, which meant that they wanted to see her alone.

There were definite stages to the decline, Dunbar said, the emotional, physical, spiritual decline. In the beginning, so he claimed, he had been understanding, tolerant of Zelle's evenings away. There were "lovely botanical gardens" not far from the hotel, and he eventually came to enjoy a solitary hour in the late afternoon among the vegetation. He also used the time to read: Ruskin, Dickens, Freud. But ultimately, he confessed, jealousy was a tangible thing, and there were also bad dreams and bad nights waiting for the sound of her key in the lock.

It went from bad to worse, with a recurring vision of her slipping off her clothing in an unfamiliar room. Talk of it always ended unpleasantly. Once she even accused him of intentionally trying to ruin her career, and there were two nights when she did not return until dawn.