“Norman Betterson. A friend of Genevieve’s and a recipient of your great generosity, sir.” His smile was almost manic. “The magazine?” he added, by way of explanation.

Magazine…Robert groped about in his memory.

“The work’s starting to dribble in now. I already have stories from Hemingway and Scott. And poetry from Gertrude Stein. I expect to have enough material to go to press in another month or two.” The fellow broke off at this point and erupted into a coughing fit that made him bend double.

“Are you OK?” asked Robert.

“Oh, don’t worry about me.” He dabbed at his mouth with a large white handkerchief. “I have five years to live. Plenty of time for you to make good on your investment.”

“Right. Of course.” Dry-mouthed, Robert smacked his empty glass down on a little table. He would have to speak to Genevieve. She was susceptible to men like this—men with fancy ideas and poetic aspirations in need of a few quick dollars. He hoped to God that it was only a few dollars…Wasn’t her fault—not exactly. Trouble was she had dreams of her own. Dreams of becoming a poet. Her literary ambitions made her easy to exploit. And, increasingly, her vulnerability was rendering him vulnerable too. What would his daddy have said about this if he’d still been alive?

He tried for another glimpse of her on the dance floor but couldn’t see her.

“Your wife”—the eyes were glittering fiercely—“is the most beautiful woman in Paris. She’s got that aristocratic British thing, hasn’t she? Like a racehorse. A real thoroughbred. You’re a lucky man. Oh, don’t look like that, Robert! I’m not saying she looks like a horse. Far from it. I—”

She had vanished. And so had the skyscraper-man.

“Excuse me.” Robert straightened his jacket and cleared his throat. “I must go and find—”

The man—Betterson, or whatever his name was—was already wandering away.

Robert wished that nobody but himself could see Genevieve’s beauty—its full, powerful dazzle. He liked to think that he was the only man who really knew her. He was ninety percent sure he did. Or maybe ninety-five. There was just the tiniest bit of doubt in him, and he couldn’t work out what it was all about.

At the moment Robert set down his glass and began to search for Genevieve, she was standing with Lulu over by the Brancusi sculpture. A waiter on stilts came teetering by with a tray of canapés, all of them colored green, and the girls raised their eyebrows in bemusement. Even if they’d wanted a snack, they’d never have been able to reach the tray.

“Well, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Genevieve. “Must have been Violet’s idea.”

“She’s a singularly stupid woman,” said Lulu.