It went on for a long time: the silence like a taut wire, clouds churning somewhere above Versailles, the two of them still frozen while her eyes filled with tears. Then, very softly: "You know, I do wish I could love only you, Nicky. I really do."

She left in the half light just after dawn. Rather than him seeing her off at the station, they parted in the courtyard below. There was still a feeble snow blown like ash. After the carriage arrived, they stood on the step while the driver loaded her luggage. Although she continued clinging to his arm, he knew that she was already gone.

"I meant to tell you," he said. "That is, I think it would be a good idea if you took a moment and wrote to Dunbar."

She nodded, but her eyes were a thousand miles away. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right."

"I know it would mean a lot to him."

"Yes, of course."

"And naturally if you get the chance I'd also appreciate . . ."

She smiled, lightly running her fingers along the corner of his mouth. "Don't be serious, Nicky, not now. Anyway, I'll be back in a week."

"Yes, a week."

"Or two."

Followed by a parting kiss and, whispered from the carriage door, something about taking care of that cat.

It took him a long time to exorcise her from his room, a long time before he stopped finding small reminders hidden under the furniture or tucked away in drawers. It was also, of course, a long time before he heard from her again ... at least five or six months.

By then she was living in the village of Esvres, south of Tours. Her lover was an amiable stockbroker by the name of Xavier Rousseau. She had met him at a musical soiree, then had more or less installed herself in a chateau he had rented from some local comtesse. Although married and still actively employed in Paris, he saw her at least once a week.

It was a scenic journey from Paris to Esvres, a slow route through the Touraine and across the Loire River. Eventually Gray came to know it quite well; usually leaving on a Monday or Tuesday to return before her lover arrived on Thursday or Friday. The arrangement was serviceable. While Rousseau paid the bills and kept her occupied on weekends, Gray filled up the slack time.

They rode horses—there is a photograph of her mounted on her favorite: a magnificent stallion called Raja. They played chess or Mah-Jongg, and she always lost for failing to concentrate. They spent quiet afternoons under the trees or in a whitewashed rotunda . . . and they also made love.