“Well, either the world has acquired a wonderful glistening sheen or it’s just this book,” said Betterson. “Between you and me, I think the big D is advancing a little closer. My markings are a tad clearer. But you know, there’s nothing like the awareness of one’s own impending doom to fire the imagination! I’ve been writing a marvelous new poem this morning. My best yet, I think. And there are lots more in my head.”

“I’m glad. About the poems, I mean.”

“So.” His face clouded over a little. “What can I do for you? You haven’t come here to issue more orders about who’s in and out of the magazine, have you?”

“No.” She stared down at the counterpane. “In fact, I wanted to apologize for what I said last night. About Guy Monteray, I mean. You’re the editor. You decide what goes in the magazine and what doesn’t, not me.”

“Splendid!” He clapped his hands. “In that case, it really is marvelous to see you.”

“Oh, Norman.” She rubbed at her head. “I was angry with you because you didn’t like my poems. But you were just being honest with me.”

“Think nothing of it, honey.” He put his head to one side and appeared to be sizing her up.

“It’s all a bit of a mess.” Her voice was flat and tired. “I’ve made bad decisions, put my faith in wrong notions and the wrong people—”

“Are you talking about Lulu? That fight you had last night?”

Genevieve shrugged. “She’s not the person I thought she was. It’s complicated.”

“I dare say.” He pulled himself up against his pillows. “But I reckon she’s worth a deal of trouble.”

“You can’t see it because you’re a man.” Genevieve thought about the two women in the other room and wondered how much they knew. “Are you in love with Lulu?”

“Me? No.” A chuckle from the bed, turning into a deeper laugh and then an alarming kind of coughing, during which his whole body seemed to heave and judder. Genevieve wondered if she should fetch one of the Mrs. Bettersons, but as she dithered, the coughing began to subside. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. “She’s fun, though.” Then the subject was closed and he started talking about the magazine. “We can’t use the title ‘Fiesta’ after all. Seems Hemingway wants it for his novel. Greedy of him, I’d say. He already had a title, but Fiesta is to be the ‘alternative’ title. McAlmon’s furious, but he’s given way. I gather they boxed for it.”

Marianne brought in two cups of tea on a tray and retreated with a wink. Betterson swallowed a couple of pills with his, draining his cup in just a few gulps.