It was cold, so he brought her a brandy, while keeping the gin for himself. Her coat was new but torn at the sleeve, and from the condition of her shoes he guessed that she must have walked miles.

"I like what you've been doing," she said at last. "Particularly those winter scenes. They remind me of—oh, I don't know—Christmas."

When all the while he'd been trying to paint death. "Look, do you want something to eat?"

She shrugged. "What have you got?"

He moved into what served as his kitchen and began to rummage through the cupboards. He found nothing except a few tins of meat, cheese, and a rotting biscuit.

"I suppose we could always go out, maybe try the Baretta," he said. "Or some other place."

"Why didn't you answer my letter, Nicky? Two weeks and you didn't answer. So why?"

He sat down again, fishing for another cigarette. "I've been busy.”

"Or else talking to Charlie Dunbar, yes?"

He glanced at the far wall, where the lamplight had thrown their shadows: to his mind hers like a thin child's, his like a sick ape's. He lit the cigarette and realized that his hand was shaking. He wanted that drink but couldn't seem to locate another clean glass.

Finally, as calmly as possible: "Who's Rudolph Spangler?"

She smirked. "So you did speak with Charles, didn't you?"

"Who is he?"

"A friend."

"What sort of friend?"

"A new friend."

"A rich friend?"

She shook her head with an exaggerated sigh. "Christ, Nicky. You didn't expect me to spend my life with Charles, did you?" Then, toying with the cat's paw again: "Anyway, he got what he wanted."

He watched her in silence as she ran her hand along the cat's spine. "How long were you with him?"

"Humm?"

"Spangler. How long were you with him?"

She shrugged. "A week."

"How was it?"

"Fine. He took me to Geneva. Ever seen Geneva?"

There were footsteps on the staircase below, possibly a drunk neighbor, or else that ghost of Michard again. "How did you meet him?"

"At a party."

"What was he like?"

"Casanova. Now for Christsakes leave it alone, Nicky. I couldn't take it with Charles anymore so I ran. Now is that such a sin?"

"Are you going to see him again?"

"Charles? How should I know?"

"I meant Spangler."

She lumped up her mouth for an irritated frown. "I don't know, maybe."

"When?"

"I don't know."

He got up from the window and drifted to the easel, where a number of brushes lay soaking in turpentine. He heard her talking softly to the cat and thought, She still doesn't know. He caught another glimpse of her face in the lamplight and supposed that nothing had really changed. He wondered what would happen if he kissed her.

"You know, I've always wanted a cat," she said. "Ever since I was little. But I seem to recall that papa wouldn't let me have one."