She was silent. Then she made her decision. "All right."

Jonathan kissed her feet and stood up. "Now how about that champagne?"

Her voice arrested him at the top of the loft stairs. "Jonathan?"

"Madam?"

"Am I your first black?"

He turned back. "Does that matter?"

"Of course it matters. I know you're a collector of paintings, and I wondered..."

He sat on the edge of the bed. "I ought to smack your bottom."

"I'm sorry."

"You still want some champagne?"

She opened her arms and beckoned with her fingers. "Afterwards."

Jonathan simply opened his eyes, and he was awake. Calm and happy. For the first time in years there was no blurred and viscous interphase between sleeping and waking. He stretched luxuriously, arching his. back and extending his limbs until every muscle danced with strain. He felt like shouting, like making a living noise. His leg touched a damp place on the sheet, and he smiled. Jemima was not in bed, but her place was still warm and her pillow was scented lightly with her perfume, and with the perfume of her.

Nude, he swung out of bed and leaned over the choir loft rail. The steep angle of the tinted shafts of sunlight across the nave indicated late morning. He called for Jemima, his voice booming back satisfactorily from the arches.

She appeared at the door to the vestry-kitchen. "You roared, sir?"

"Good morning!"

"Good morning." She wore the trim linen suit she had arrived in, and she seemed to glow white in the shadow. "I'll have coffee ready by the time you've bathed." And she disappeared through the vestry door.

He splashed about in the Roman bath and sang, loudly but not well. What would they do today? Go into the city? Or just loaf around? It did not matter.

He toweled himself down and put on a robe. It had been years since he had slept so late. It must be nearly—Jesus Christ! The Pissarro! He had promised the dealer he would pick it up by noon!

He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting impatiently for the phone on the other end of the line to be picked up.

"Hello? Yes?" The dealers' voice had the curving note of artificial interest.

"Jonathan Hemlock."

"Oh, yes. Where are you? Why are you calling?"

"I'm at my home."

"I don't understand, Jonathan. It is after eleven. How can you be here by noon?"

"I can't. Look, I want you to hold the painting for me a couple of hours. I'm on my way now."

"There is no need to rush. I cannot hold the painting. I told you I had another buyer. He is with me at this moment. It is tragic, but I warned you to be here on time. A deal is a deal."

"Give me one hour."

"My hands are tied."

"You said the other buyer had offered twelve thousand. I'll match it."

"If only I could, my good friend. But a deal is—"

"Name a price."

"I am sorry, Jonathan. The other buyer says he will top any price you make. But, since you have offered fifteen thousand, I will ask him." There was a mumble off-phone. "He says sixteen, Jonathan. What can I do?"

"Who is the other bidder?"

"Jonathan!" The voice was filled with righteous shock.

"I'll pay an extra thousand just to know."

"How can I tell you, Jonathan? I am bound by my ethics. And furthermore, he is right here in the same room with me."

"I see. All right, I'll give you a description. Just say yes if it fits. That's a thousand dollars for one syllable."

"At that rate, think what the Megilloth would bring."

"He's blond, crew-cut, chunky, small eyes—close set, face heavy and flat, probably wearing a sport jacket, his tie and socks will be in bad taste, he is probably wearing his hat in your home—"

"To a T, Jonathan. T as in thousand."

It was Clement Pope. "I know the man. He must have a top price. His employer would never trust him with unlimited funds. I offer eighteen thousand."

The dealer's voice was filled with respect. "You have that much in cash, Jonathan?"

"I have."

There was another prolonged and angry mumble off-phone. "Jonathan! I have wonderful news for you. He says he can top your offer, but he does not have the cash with him. It will be several hours before he can get it. Therefore, my good friend, if you are here by one o'clock with the nineteen thousand, the painting is yours along with my blessing."

"Nineteen thousand?"

"You have forgotten the fee for information?"

The painting would cost almost everything Jonathan had, and he would have to find some way to face his debts and Mr. Monk's wages. But at least he would have the Pissarro. "All right. I'll be there by one."

"Wonderful, Jonathan. My wife will have a glass of tea for you. So now tell me, how are you feeling? And how are the children?"

Jonathan repeated the terms of the arrangement so there would be no mistake, then he hung up.

For several minutes he sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed in space, his hatred for Dragon and Pope collecting into an adamantine lump. Then he caught the smell of coffee and remembered Jemima.

She was gone. And the blue envelope, chubby with its hundred-dollar bills, was gone with her.

In a brace of rapid telephone calls designed to salvage at least the painting, Jonathan discovered that Dragon, weak after his semiannual transfusion, would not speak to him, and that the art dealer, although sympathetic to his problem and solicitous of his family's health, was firm in his intent to sell the Pissarro to Pope as soon as the money was produced.

Jonathan sat alone down in the gallery, his gaze fixed on the space he had reserved for the Pissarro. Beside him on the desk was an untouched cafe au laitcup. And next to the cup was a note from Jemima:

Jonathan:

I tried to make you understand last night how important this assignment

Darling, I would give anything if

Yesterday and last night meant more to me than I can ever tell you, but there are things that

I had to guess. I hope you take sugar in your coffee.

Love (really) Jemima

She had taken nothing but the money. He found the clothes he had bought neatly folded on the kitchen table. Even their dishes from last night's supper were washed and put away.

He sat. Hours passed. Above him, unseen in the empty nave, shafts of colored light and blocks of shadow swung imperceptibly on silent hinges, and evening came.

The bitterest part of his anger was turned inward.

He was ashamed at being so gullible. Her warmth and radiance had blinded him, a self-inflicted abacination.

In his mental list of those who had used friendship as a weapon against him, he inscribed Jemima's name under Miles Mellough's.

"The moving finger writes," he mused to himself, "and having writ, gestures."

He closed the door to the gallery and locked it—for the last time that summer.