She held out her slender hand, slowly revolving it until the palm was upward. ‘Read mine.’

He shaded his brow, set his face in a feigned trance, and touched Norberg’s palm with his forefinger. ‘I see one woman, majestically alone, and thousands at her feet.’

‘I hate crowds, Mr. Craig,’ she said quietly. ‘If you look closer, you might see more. Not the career line, the personal life line. You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

Craig knew that she was frankly staring at him, but he did not lift his eyes. Was an invitation couched in the child’s play? It was possible, anything was possible, and the likelihood of it amused him. He remembered, at once, Gottling’s little speech: democracy had virtually swept away titled royalty, and then, to fill the gap, created a royalty of its own-the élite aristocracy of celebrity, wealth, and prize-winners. In this rare circle, background did not matter. A boy might come from New York’s lower East Side or Coney Island, be born of semi-literate parents with unfashionable ghetto accents, uneducated beyond grammar school or high school, or he might emerge from a farm in Iowa or a ranch in Idaho, be born of narrow peasant stock, unread and unlearned and unsophisticated, but if he could floor any man on earth with a punch, or crudely and savagely outwit all competition and amass vast wealth, or, yes, write a book that moved millions-if he could have his image before the world on magazine covers, or his name in print, if he could become a Success-he was of the élite. A single unique talent or sometimes luck alone, either one was enough. He was of the earth’s anointed. Overnight, he was in that higher place. Overnight, the ones who would previously not have deigned to look at him or speak to him, the ones who considered him of the herd, would now recognize his aristocracy and accept him as their equal. Overnight, what had so recently been impossible was all-possible. Overnight, he could banter with a King, share food with a millionaire, and know flirtation from an unapproachable sex symbol. So incredible. For he was no different than before the ascension. He had not changed in his eyes. He had changed in their eyes.

And tonight, Märta Norberg could say to him, ‘You mean you don’t see a man coming into my life?’

A month ago, he would have been timorous of asking for her autograph. Now she was asking for his.

He bent over her hand. ‘I see many men,’ he said.

‘Unlikely,’ she said, and instantly withdrew her hand. ‘You are a faker, Mr. Craig. Confine your reading to timetables and telephone books.’ Then her mouth smiled, as if to remove any hint of annoyance. ‘I read in the newspaper the other day that the things you like most about Sweden include Carl Milles, Ivar Kreuger, and Märta Norberg.’

‘And Orrefors glass,’ said Craig mildly.

‘Yes, of course.’ She considered him. ‘Am I to feel complimented in that company?’

‘You all have this in common-divine artistry. Except that you and Orrefors have also beauty.’

‘Orrefors is transparent and hard. Whatever you think, I am neither.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But I have artistry and beauty, yes. I can see it is a compliment.’

‘I always looked forward to your plays and pictures,’ said Craig honestly. ‘Going to either, when you starred, was forever an event. I’ve missed you, and I know I’m not alone. Why did you quit?’

‘I didn’t quit,’ said Märta Norberg testily. ‘It is the creative writer who has quit. I have waited for one to invent a role worthy of my time. In the last four years, I have read nothing but trash. Why don’t men write about women any more-women as large as life, as tragic, as important? Why are men afraid? Where is Anna Karenina? Where is Emma Bovary? Where is Marguerite Gautier? Why have women diminished in size?’

‘Women are not smaller today,’ said Craig. ‘The problem is that men have shrunk-withered by complexity-and men are so busy growing up to women, they no longer have time to sing of them.’

‘You may be right,’ said Märta Norberg thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it is up to us… At any rate, I’ve been made so desperate that I am involving myself in rehashing Rachel’s old repertory. I’m considering Eugène Scribe’s Adrienne Lecouvreur. Do you know the play?’

‘Not the play but the subject. Lecouvreur was the eighteenth-century actress Voltaire loved, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. And Marshal de Saxe. It’s an old play, perhaps dated. But it has a woman. It has grand passion. At least the heroine is worthy of Märta Norberg.’ She measured Craig briefly. ‘Would you like to see me rehearse the role?’

‘I would like nothing better.’

‘Very well. I’m at the Royal Dramatic Theatre every afternoon. Cronsten is directing me. Why don’t you drop in tomorrow? As a matter of fact, there is a business matter I’d like to discuss with you. This is no place for it. But if you came by late afternoon tomorrow-five or six-when rehearsal is almost over, we can have a cocktail and talk in peace. May I expect you?’

‘I’ll be there, Miss Norberg.’

She glanced off. ‘Ragnar has his handkerchief out. That is his distress flag. It means he wants to be rescued. Very well. Tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Craig.’

‘Thank you, Miss Norberg.’

His eyes followed her to Hammarlund’s group. Her stride was a man’s stride, and her carriage slouched and poor, and yet there was utter femininity and provocation in her lanky figure. Around her, like the circles around Saturn, there was an atmospheric film of inscrutability. Or had that been manufactured in a hundred press agents’ typewriters? No, he told himself, you did not create such things. It was there. You wanted to know what she was really like, deep inside, and if she possessed, to a degree more than mortal, the mystic power to make a man feel he was superman. Thus spake Zarathustra. Thus spake Märta Norberg.

As he watched Norberg link her arm in Hammarlund’s arm, and join Hammarlund’s company, Craig saw Emily Stratman detach herself from that group. He fancied that she had tried to catch his eye, but he was not certain. She had placed her empty glass on a table, and was moving towards the French doors. Craig’s gaze followed her passage, and Norberg was forgotten. If femininity was desired, femininity and provocation and mystery, Emily carried all these more naturally. The silk jersey gown clung to the contours of her body as she walked, to the wavelike vacillation of her breasts, to the sinuous, rippling thighs. She had lifted the latch on the French door, and then she was gone.

Craig looked over his shoulder. Leah was elsewhere absorbed. Immediately, he started for the terrace.

Outside, the air was colder now, and the English lamps seemed shrouded. At first, he could not find her, and then he made her out at last, her back to him, arms folded against the weather, in a shadowed corner of the veranda.

He went to her. ‘Emily-’

She revolved towards him, slowly, without surprise, her green eyes and innocent face serious and trusting.

‘-it’s too cold out here, but’-he faltered, because her eyes were intent on his mouth, and she was not listening-‘I had to see you alone.’

She said nothing, but her bare arms crossed, she seemed to lean towards him, and he placed one arm around her shoulders, spontaneously, unthinking, to draw her close and give her garment warmth and body warmth.

In his half embrace, she lifted her face, eyes closed, soft lips parted, and momentarily he was mindless of discretion and consequences. He brought her up to him, her back arched against his hand, until his mouth met her moist lips. The kiss held for a small infinity, until both his arms had gone around her, and the kiss deepened, and rising passion gripped them both.

Suddenly, with a gasp, she withdrew her lips from his mouth, eyes still tight, but averting her face, yet remaining in his hold.