Of course he considered leaving, slipping away in the morning while she slept. Eventually he even found himself studying the train schedules and composing farewell notes. He rather thought that something brief and cavalier would have been best: Darling, by the time you have read this I'll have reached the Coast. . . adieu. However, he never got further than packing a bag. (In this, Gray thought wryly, they were not so different.)

In time Dunbar came to see that her behavior followed a pattern, a cyclical pattern of cruelty and affection from which there was no escape. Following Monte Carlo they moved on to Sofia, Budapest, and Prague. The weather remained irregular, and Zelle became increasingly moody. Although there were still occasions when she genuinely tried to please him, more and more it seemed that their relationship had taken a bad turn. There were distinctly sadistic overtones to the nights, and twice she actually struck him with her hairbrush. She had "grown rather fond of ordering me about," he said.

There was an epilogue to Dunbar's story, but at first he seemed too tired to tell it. Since the rain had stopped, he had returned to the window, moodily describing a few last impressions. He said that although she continued to live nocturnally, she honestly loved the mornings. He said that more than once he had found her on a balcony just after dawn. "I also seem to recall that she specifically enjoyed a certain garden in Sofia," he added, "and of course the Danube was very beautiful, although I can't imagine why they say it's blue."

Through all this Gray had sat watching from the wicker chair. Earlier he had asked if Dunbar was hungry but had gotten no reply. Now again: "If you're hungry ... if you want something to eat?"

"No, not hungry, not cold. Just tired."

There was whisky in a cupboard, half a bottle that hadn't been touched for years. Gray poured another two glasses without asking, then said, "I can fix you a bed on the divan.”

Again Dunbar declined. "Not tired, not in that sense . . ." Then, turning away from the window: "You know, the funny part is that I didn't actually leave her. Not even at the end. She left me. Simply ran off with another man. Which is always, I suppose, the story."

Across the room, still watching, Gray had put the glasses down. He wanted air but it was too cold to open a window.

"It happened in Vienna," Dunbar said suddenly. "The second time around after Prague. Things had been rather comfortable for a while, then one evening she turned up with this captain. A German she called Rudy, which I gather was also the name of her first husband, wasn't it?"

Gray nodded. "Yes, her husband's name was Rudy."