I shook my head. “Kris Ann’s still the woman I want. That’s one thing you should know: that if I find out who threatened her I won’t invite him to the club and quote Passages. I’ll kill him.”

Mooring stared at me fixedly. “Bravely spoken.”

“Lunch, gentlemen?” A waiter had slipped into the room and stood at a middle distance. Light from the chandelier made his face shiny. Carelessly, Mooring said, “You don’t eat here, do you? You might try the Coquilles St. Jacques.”

“Roast beef,” I told the waiter. “Medium rare.”

“Thank you, sir.” He was a grizzled, crease-faced man old enough to be my father. Mooring ordered prawns and the waiter shuffled out, stiff and careful in the joints.

Mooring’s eyes had stayed on me through the byplay. “I’ve had enough condescension now,” he said evenly. “You think you’re different from me. The only difference is that your marriage made things easier. You see, I’ve known you since you first came here for parties, without ever being introduced. The first dance you stared at the floral display. You were wondering what it cost. I knew that. I knew that your tuxedo tie fastened in back because you hadn’t learned to knot one. Your hands kept groping for pockets. When your wife talked to other men, you watched as though one might steal her. You felt out of place. Like me. And like me you kept coming back.”

His insight startled me. For a moment I recalled feeling always about to select the wrong fork. “Once I thought Fitzgerald characters were interesting,” I told him. “They are—in books.”

Mooring lit a cigarette. Narrowly he watched it burn, taking one deep drag with the cigarette still between his lips. “It’s ironic. Lydia understood that in you; she used to worry over your marriage, what would happen when you knew yourself. She understood it in me, that it was part of why I loved her. Not her money. Her sense of entitlement. You and I will never have that if we live to be a hundred.”

I didn’t answer. Mooring was a surprising man. His voice turned crisp. “About your wife. I know nothing of threats. You can accept that or not. But Joanne you leave alone. You’re not to come near her or the house. The nurse on duty has instructions.”

“You’re incredible, Mooring. This morning I got a good look at your wife. She’s feverish drunk and violent and crazy from neglect, and all you want is to lock her up.”

Mooring’s face closed against me. “There’s too much you don’t understand. I’m not asking your advice. You haven’t quite caught on, have you?”

“Draw me a picture.”

“I’ve told you all this so you would understand one thing: you’re not going to the police.”