After supper they undressed in silence, then lay down together on thick rugs by the stove. For a long time he simply held her in his arms, consciously trying to form memories that he knew might have to last for years. He studied her breasts very carefully, the dark nipples, that dolphin's mouth, those still-brook eyes. He asked her questions, concentrating on the sound of her voice, which was mostly dry but clear. From time to time he found excuses to leave her so that he could study her body from different angles.

As for Zelle, she too remained fairly quiet, oddly conscious of future memories: a vision of him seated at his easel, a slow response to a simple question, the faint smell of turpentine, burnt matches and pomander. She also loved the way he handled a palette knife, or bent under the lamplight to sharpen a pencil. But the drawings themselves were still a little unfathomable, like a glacier.

The succeeding days were also cold, but mostly it was a windless cold and they often walked in the evenings. They tended to avoid familiar cafes or the loitering crowds on the boulevards. They also tended to avoid discussing the future.

Finally they did not leave his room at all, so that the last three nights felt like a single night. They lived on food delivered by a boy: dried fruit, pickled cabbage, meat pie, and beer. They rarely slept before dawn. They played chess in silence but without really concentrating. They kept the lights low.

The last day was Sunday. By nine in the evening her bags had been packed, her coat laid out on the bed. A train ticket stood propped against a jar on the mantle—first class to Cannes, where she was to perform on behalf of some merchant from Antwerp. Another storm lay on the horizon to the east. Earlier, they had seen it above the skyline as a solid wall of clouds. And now there was the wind again.

For a while Gray toyed with the idea of asking her to stay . . . begging her ... demanding ... But there seemed to be no point. "It's only for a week," she had told him. "One silly little week, and if you really want to, then come along," she told him. "Come along, and we can languish by the seashore together."

At least he knew better than that.

Following a supper of cold cuts and beer, they sat side by side on the low divan. She wore her oriental robe embroidered with white chrysanthemums. He wore what he always wore. After a long silence he asked if she wanted a glass of sherry. Her reply was strangely formal, her voice disconnected and flat: no, she wanted nothing more to drink. Sometime later he asked if she cared to take a walk to the river or the municipal gardens. Then, although her response was the same, he realized that she was crying.