He worked slowly, carefully, because none of the old tricks applied. Her arms weren't any girl's arms, and the eyes were nearly impossible. He worked with charcoal because this first vision demanded something soft and vague. He hardly spoke, because he could not think of anything amusing to say. During breaks she put on a bathrobe, and he watched her smoke on the balcony. When it was over he watched her from the window, moving between the brickwork.

Soon he simply found himself waiting for her footsteps on the staircase. She always appeared a little late, but never seemed to realize it. If he kept her through the lunch hour she always expected a sandwich. If there was wind in the streets she would waste another twenty minutes brushing her hair. If she talked, she only talked about herself. But when she finally emerged naked again to kneel in that patch of light, he had to admit that she was worth every inconvenience.

"I wonder if you could lift your head a little," he would tell her.

"Like this?"

"Yes, thank you," as her presence suddenly filled the room.

By the end of the week he had completed six preliminary sketches, although none was entirely satisfactory. Something continued to elude him, something in the angle of her shoulders, the slope of her back, those eyes. He sketched her again in the afternoon, then once more by gaslight in the evening. He experimented with crayon and a dozen shades of ink . . . until he finally caught himself simply gazing at her photograph, wondering if it was even possible to sketch this girl without having slept with her first.

De Massloff sensed the change immediately, first in the trailing conversations, then in the drawings themselves. It was late. He and Gray had returned from dinner to open a bottle of brandy in Gray's room. The Zelle drawings were propped against a wall opposite a wooden chair.

"So this is what you've been doing with that bicycle girl."

The painter grunted. "They're not finished."

"But they're good, Nicky. They're very good." He stepped back to the window and turned up the gas jet. "In fact I'd say that they're your best yet."

Gray shrugged and poured a second glass of brandy. "She's a difficult subject."

"Yes, but you've handled her wonderfully. I particularly like what you've done with the eyes."

"The eyes are shit," and he poured a third glass.

They drank in silence for a while—Gray with a cigarette, staring at the roofs and an indigo sky, de Massloff still gazing at the drawings.

"Do you know something?" de Massloff finally said. "I think that you're getting quite serious about this girl."

Gray looked up above the rim of his glass. "Mmmm?"

"I said that I think you're getting serious about this little bicycle girl of yours."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Ah, but it's right here in the drawings. I can see it."