“You looked…” He lowered his voice, making the space between them seem smaller, more intimate. “You looked as though something profound was happening to you, right there inside your head, while the poetry rushed on past you like a train, like life itself. As though you’d hit on something important.”

“Well…” Genevieve wondered whether to confess that she’d simply been doodling.

“You looked as though you were considering what would be the best way to die.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Genevieve, my dear.” It was Betterson, smiling out of one side of his mouth, so that he looked lopsided. The bow tie, too, was crooked. “I see you’ve met Guy. He’s one of our best poets, you know.”

“Yes, we’ve met. Norman, I was wondering—”

“About the magazine? Let’s have a talk about it later, shall we? After this shindig? A few of us are going over to the Select, if you’d like to join us.”

“Actually, it wasn’t about the magazine. Not really.”

“I was thinking we might feature some of Guy’s poems in the first issue.”

“That’s nice.” Genevieve sucked in a breath and watched Monteray head across the room to join Pound. “It was about my poems, Norman.”

“Ah, yes.” Betterson patted her on the arm and winked as one might wink at a child. “Later? The Select?”

A gong sounded loudly. A woman dressed like an English butler declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon’s pageant is shortly to commence. As we’ve been favored with beautiful spring sunshine, we will move out to the Temple à l’Amitié, so may I ask you to process to the garden, taking your teacups with you? Those of you vulnerable to the cold might like to collect your coats and wraps as we go. We have some rugs that you could put over your legs, but I do assure you that it’s wonderfully warm outside.”

“Fantastic,” said Betterson. “I do love it when Natalie puts on a show.”

Genevieve looked around for Guy Monteray, but he seemed to have slipped away.

The Temple à l’Amitié was a mock Greek temple, complete with pillars and statues, the front steps decked out as a stage. The audience sat, protected from the breeze by the tall, ivy-covered walls of the neighboring houses in the Rue Visconti and Rue de Seine, on folding chairs arranged in concentric semicircles. Genevieve sat by Norman Betterson, who was allowing his leg to press against hers, just a little.

A man in a dinner jacket, whom she recognized as the composer and musician Virgil Thomson, sat down at the grand piano positioned beside the temple and struck up something modern and experimental-sounding.

When Genevieve attempted to shift in her seat to avoid the physical contact with Betterson, his leg inched across still farther to rest against hers once again.