“Darling!” Genevieve widened her eyes to show how shocked she was. “I couldn’t let an amateur loose on a piece of fine art like that horse! Why, I’d never forgive myself if some sort of harm came to it. A delicate job like that requires skill, care, expertise.”

“Well, I suppose you know best.”

Soon he’d be out the front door with his hat and his briefcase, and she could let the breath go.

“So what are you thinking of doing today?” he asked.

“I need to finalize the party venue. The invitations will have to go out soon. And then this afternoon I’m going along to Natalie Barney’s salon. Paul Valéry’s giving a reading. And Norman Betterson will be there.”

“Ah, yes. That magazine fellow.” He’d come right into the room now. He bent to kiss the top of her head.

“He’s not just ‘that magazine fellow,’ Robert. He’s a poetic genius.”

“Of course he is, honey. Whatever you say.”

American arts patron Natalie Barney regularly hosted poetry readings at her 300-year-old mansion on the Rue Jacob, but this was the first time Genevieve was to attend. Eager to make the right impression, she spent a long time over her outfit, eventually choosing a two-piece gray Chanel suit in imported tweed with a mannish notched collar, which made her feel intellectual, and a pair of court shoes in snakeskin by an English shoemaker, Sebastian York. Their shape was conventional but the choice of materials lent them a certain pizzazz. They had a naughtiness that she enjoyed. She liked to think of the snakes slithering over her feet.

The audience at Miss Barney’s salon was almost entirely female. And Genevieve was about the only non-sapphic woman present, so far as she could judge. This made her uncomfortable, perhaps because she had no sway with them. She was a nobody, only there at all on Norman Betterson’s recommendation. Yet she knew that this was one of the places that she, as a poet, should make her own. If only Lulu had been here to get her a few introductions. Lulu knew everybody. But then again, Lulu was full of devilry just when you needed her to be serious. She’d probably go waltzing off with one of those women in monocle and cravat, just for the novelty.

The reading was late to start. Women dressed as men drifted among the dated, turn-of-the-century furnishings, or lounged against Turkish cushions on the couches. Genevieve, ignored, took a seat and gazed up at the domed, stained-glass ceiling. There was an ancient mythological feel to this place, she reflected. Though tiny, fierce Natalie was no Greek goddess. If only Norman Betterson would turn up.