"I am."

"Well, I'm not going to tell you. Give that mind of yours something to chew on. You'll figure it out easily enough when you read about it in the newspapers."

"When will that be?"

"Exactly one week from tonight."

"You're a crafty and secretive son of a bitch."

"Part of my charm."

"MacTaint..." Jonathan didn't pursue it. He had no doubt at all but that the old fox would get the painting.

"All right," MacTaint relented, "I'll give you a little hint." He fished up a penknife from the depths of his overcoat pocket and pulled open one of the blades with a broken crusty thumbnail. Then he leaned over the painting for a second before slashing it twice, making a broad through the face of the boy. "There. How's that?"

"You are a nut, MacTaint. I'm getting out of here."

MacTaint chuckled to himself as he showed Jonathan to the door. "Haven't you ever wanted to do something like that, lad? Slash a painting? Or break a raw egg in your hand? Or kiss a strange lady in an elevator?"

"You're a nut. Give my love to Lilla."

"I have enough trouble trying to give her my own."

"Good night"

"Yes."

The warehouse-cum-studio was in darkness, save for a single light hanging from the corrugated roof and the reddish glow of banked coal fires through the mica windows of the pot-bellied stoves. Only one painter was still at work, alone in absorbed concentration within the single circle of light. Jonathan walked silently across the cement floor and stood at the edge of the light, watching. His attention was so taken by the alert, feline motions of the painter attacking the canvas, then drawing back to judge effect, that it was some moments before he realized she was a woman. Seemingly oblivious to his presence, she squeezed off the excess paint from her brush between her thumb and forefinger and wiped them on the seat of her jeans, then she put the brush between her teeth sideways and took up a finer one to correct some detail. Her cavalier method of cleaning brushes was evidently habitual, because her bottom was a chaos of pigment, and Jonathan found this more interesting than the modernistic daub on the easel.

"What do you think of it?" she asked between her teeth, without turning around.

"It's certainly colorful. And attractively taut. But I think its potential for motion is its most appealing feature."

She stepped back and scrutinized the canvas critically. "Taut?"

"Well, I don't mean rigid. More lean and compact."

"And interesting?"

"Most interesting."

"That's the kiss of death. When people don't like what you've done, but they don't want to hurt your feelings, they always fall back on "interesting."

Jonathan laughed. "Yes, I suppose that's true." He was delighted by her voice. It had the curling vowels of Irish, and the range was a dry contralto.

"No, now tell me true. What do you honestly think of it?"

"You really want to know?"

"Probably not." With a quick movement she brushed a wisp of amber hair away with the back of her hand. "But go ahead."

"Like most modern painting, I think it's undisciplined, self-indulgent crap."

She took the brush from her mouth and stood for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest. "Well now. No one could accuse you of trying to chat a girl up just to get into her knickers."

"But I am chatting you up," he protested, "and probably for that reason."

She looked at him for the first time, her eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Does that work very often-just saying it out boldly like that?"

"No, not very often. But it saves me a hell of a lot of wasted energy."

She laughed. "Do you really know anything about art?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I see." She thoughtfully replaced her brushes in a soup tin filled with turpentine. "Well. That's it, I guess." She turned to him and smiled. "Are you in a mood to celebrate?"

"Celebrate what?"

"The end of my career."

"Oh, come now!"

"No, no. Don't flatter yourself that it's just your opinion, informed though you assure me it is. As it happens, I agree with you totally. I suppose I'm a better critic than painter. Still, I've made one great contribution to Art. I've taken myself out of it."

He smiled. "All right. How would you like to celebrate?"

"I think dinner might be a good idea for starts. I haven't eaten since morning."

"You're broke?"

"Stoney."

"The only thing open this time of night would be one of the more fashionable restaurants." He glanced involuntarily at her clothes.

"Don't worry. I shan't embarrass you. I'll just clean up and change before we go."

"You have your clothes here?"

She nodded her head toward two suitcases standing against the wall. "My rent came due this morning, you see. And the landlady never cared for the stink of turps in the halls anyway." She began scrubbing the paint from her hands with a cloth dipped in turpentine.

"You intended to sleep here?"

"Just for the night. The old geezer won't mind. Other painters have done it from time to time. I used the last of my money to send an SOS telegram to relatives in Ireland. They'll be sending something down in the morning, I suspect. You can turn your back if the female nude disturbs you-not that I'll be all that nude."

"No, no. Go ahead. I've passed some of my happiest moments in the presence of the nude figure."

She wriggled out of her close-fitting jeans and kicked them up into her hands. "Of course, as a nude, I wouldn't have been much to Rubens's taste. I'm quite the opposite of ample, as you can see. In fact, I'm damned near two-dimensional."

"They're two of my favorite dimensions."

She was just pulling her jumper over her head, and she stopped in mid-motion, looking out through the head opening. "You've a glib and shallow way of talking. I suppose the girls find that dishy."

"But you do not."

"No, not especially. But I don't hold it against you, for I suppose it's just a habit. Will this do, do you think?" She drew up from the open suitcase a long green paisley gown that set off the cupric tones of her hair.

"That will do perfectly."

She tossed it on over her head, then patted down her short fine hair. "I'm ready."

He gave her her choice of restaurants, and she selected an expensive French one near Regent's Park on the basis that she had never had the money to go there and it was fun to be both beggar and chooser. Nothing about the meal was right. The butter in the scampi meuniere tasted of char, the salade nicoise was more acid than bracing, and the only wine available at temperature was a Pouilly-Fuisse, that atonic white that occupies so large a sector of British taste. But Jonathan enjoyed the evening immensely. She was a charmer, this one, and the quality of the food did not matter, save as another subject for laughter. The lilt and color of her accent was contagious, and he had to prevent himself from slipping into an imitation of it.

She ate with healthy appetite, both her portions and his, while he watched her with pleasure. Her face intrigued him. The mouth was too wide. The jawline was too square. The nose undistinguished. The amber hair so fine that it seemed constantly stirred by unfelt breezes. It was a boyish face with the mischievous flexibility of a street gamine. Her most arresting feature was her eyes, bottle green and too large for the face, and thick lashes like sable brushes. Their special quality came from the rapid eddies of expression of which they were capable. Laughter could squeeze them from below; another moment they would flatten to a look of vulnerable surprise; then instantly they were narrow with incredulity; then intense and shining with intelligence; but at rest, they were nothing special. In fact, no single element of her face was remarkable, but the total he found fascinating.