HER OUTFIT WAS CAREFULLY calculated. She had excelled herself. The Paul Poiret dress was of chiffon, and the scarf was lynx. Her shoes—Oxford ties in Sauterne kid with a swirling appliqué pattern in tan calf and spike heels—were beautifully designed and custom made, but subtle. The designer, one Wilfred Hargreaves of London, was a quiet man, disinterested in fashion fame, and would not pose a sufficient threat to Zachari’s ego so as to make him bridle. As if to compensate for the subtlety of the shoes, Genevieve was dripping in diamonds—from her fingers, ears, wrists and neck.

When Robert looked up from his morning paper to see her standing in the hallway adjusting the scarf, he seemed, for a moment, to forget himself, and let out a loud whistle.

She glanced over, startled. He was blushing. So was she. And then they both giggled.

“Down, boy!” she said.

“You look fabulous,” he said. “Where are you going?”

And then she was chattering about the shoe fitting, and with every word that she uttered, her confidence grew a little more and she knew that it would be all right between them. He would never guess what she’d done. She would never feel compelled to tell him. His whistle had saved her.

“Back again, madame?” The assistant, when she opened the door, was as steely as ever. She began to close the door on Genevieve, her face showing a quiet pleasure in being able to do so.

But now there was a sound from inside. Zachari’s voice calling, “Olga?” And the woman paused with the door still half-open and turned her head to await instruction.

“I think you’ll find,” said Genevieve, “that I have an appointment.”

“Good morning, madame.” Zachari extended an arm to show her into the purple interior of the shop. There was a formality about him today. A brusque quality. It was as though those hours last night in the green café had never happened.

Well, thought Genevieve, that suits me just fine.

Olga was still lingering by the reception desk, and Genevieve felt her every movement being scrutinized by those cold eyes. But then, to her delight, Zachari told his assistant to go and wait downstairs until after the fitting.

“Well, Mr. Zachari. As I told you before, I’m throwing a Cubist costume party. It’s taking place in six weeks’ time, and what I’d like—”

“Take your shoes and stockings off, please, Mrs. Shelby King.” Zachari took her by the arm as he spoke and directed her firmly to one of the purple couches.