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went into the kitchen and returned carrying a pottery terrine in the shape of a goose. Francis knew at once that it was full of pâté de foie gras.
    â€œI forgot about this,” Billy said. “Grey’s uncle sent it to us ages ago. And look! Water biscuits.”
    Francis adored foie gras. He thought, longingly, of brown bread with Normandy butter, endive salad, chilled white wine, and spicy little cornichons to go with it, but here at Billy’s table, they ate their slices on stale water biscuits. He thought of other meals he would like to have with it: double consommé with tiny meat dumplings, Bibb lettuce with mustard dressing, toast points. On white plates with big linen napkins. This was his way of making mental reference to Vera, who knew how to serve foie gras, without thinking about her.
    Francis considered himself an excellent husband. He fetched his wife’s luggage, picked her up from the airport and carried her thence, drew her bath when she was tired, weather-stripped the bedroom windows, saw to her investments, gave financial advice to members of her family, was moderate in his habits and, in general, was a cheering sort of companion. His many years with Vera were rich in history.
    And yet, he thought, as he gazed at the top of Billy’s head, at his age a man required a little light and dark—a little something that made the images of life as clear and startling as those on a photographic plate.
    Francis often thought of this love affair in architectural terms—as a folly or gazebo or some small chapel done in California Spanish Gothic. Whatever it was, it was an eccentric structure full of twists, turns, gargoyles, and mazes—a kind of created wilderness, like the gardens of Capability Brown.
    He smiled across the table. A smile stole—the only way it ever got there—across Billy’s features. It quite lit up her face and reminded Francis how much he loved her.
    â€œIt’s so rare to see you smile,” he said with a catch in his voice. “Each time I see it, I always think I ought to have a picture of it.”
    â€œSmart idea,” said Billy. “You could make it into postcards and send it to your friends at Christmas.”
    Late at night Francis went out into the cold and drove to his own abode to sleep alone. He and Billy did not have what Billy referred to as “sleep-over dates.” The ostensible reason for the shunning of sleep-over dates was the late-night telephone call from a traveling spouse, but the truth, although Francis was not sure quite what the truth was, was probably more complicated. For instance, Billy hated his house and usually refused to set a foot within it. Therefore their dealings took place at Billy’s. Furthermore, she became extremely uneasy whenever Francis followed her into her bedroom. Francis, of course, followed her any chance he got—when she went to change her clothes, for example. He had noticed with an unpleasant jolt that the bed his mistress shared with her husband was rather small, whereas the bed he shared with his wife was rather large.
    Late at night it was not unusual for Francis to find himself wide awake, exhausted, and unable to sleep. The theme of this insomnia was Grey Delielle. Often he simply held an image of Grey in his mind—Grey with his elbows on Francis’s dinner table talking in his soft, intelligent voice, an image from the one dinner party Billy and Grey had been to, although they had been invited several times.
    What did he know about Grey? That he had done graduate work at the London School of Economics and had worked on Wall Street for a year before he quit in a combination of boredom and despondency. He had been snapped up to be economic adviser and troubleshooter at the Valeur Foundation, where he wrote white papers on economic trends and represented the foundation at various seminars and policy meetings here and abroad. He had invented the Delielle curve,