He turned away and lit a cigarette, but she realized that he was still watching from an oval mirror above the dressing table. He had removed only his waistcoat. There was a slight smile on his thin lips.

"Of course there is always the possibility that you're lying, but somehow I don't think so."

She shifted her naked thighs, conscious of his gaze as a tangible force. "Rudolph, I really—"

"Yes, Rudolph. But beyond that you actually don't know, do you?"

"Rudy, please . . ."

"Oh, don't be afraid. Even if you're lying, I wouldn't hurt you."

Then, extinguishing his cigarette, he slowly crossed the room and undressed. His body was hard and white in the moonlight, below his ribs was a scar that resembled a crescent moon. He whispered again, bending to kiss her: "No, you really don't know, do you? He laid his hand on her breast, and for several seconds neither seemed able to move. Then he was on her like a white scarf, briefly suspended before falling.

The stillness returned the moment he withdrew from her, as if it might have crept into the room from under the door, a force in its own right. He poured her a glass of sherry and laid it on the table beside the bed, but at first she hadn't the strength to touch it. Then too, she didn't want to wash away the taste of him.

"Why did you ask if I knew who you were?"

He smiled. "Call it a soldier's preoccupation."

Her hand slid across the bed, moving to that scar. Somehow it seemed more prominent now. She touched it, curiously, as a child might touch a dead thing. "And how did you get this?"

He smiled again, lighting another cigarette. "War."

"Yes, but how?"

"I was stupid, I think. Yes, I was stupid."

"Was it from a bullet?"

"I don't know, I can't remember."

She shut her eyes and kissed it, then kissed it again. "Well, if I had been your nurse, you certainly would have remembered."

He smiled, lifting her head to the light. "Yes, Margaretha. Yes, I think you would have been a very good woman in a war."

The tempo of the first day continued. In the mornings they walked for a mile past the quay. In the afternoons they usually rested quietly, sitting together on a balcony. Conversations remained dry and superficial. He never again asked if she knew who he really was.

The tone of the nights also never changed. He would usually enter her room just after ten o'clock. Occasionally he brought champagne, more often sherry. He took the first glass in a chair by the window, watching from the shadows while she undressed. Then laying down the glass and extinguishing his cigarette, he would move to the edge of the bed. Although he was always very gentle with her, it was clear to her from his eyes, his manner, that only absolute submission was acceptable.