say what you will, it’s one of the pleasantest homes I’ve ever been in. Lucky Anita!”

She lurched upward, a dolphin shattering the surface of the sea, pushed back the table (overturning a champagne glass), seized her purse, said: “Be right back”; and careened toward the mirrored door of the Côte Basque powder room.

ALTHOUGH THE PRIEST AND THE assassin were still whispering and sipping at their table, the restaurant’s rooms had emptied, M. Soulé had retired. Only the hatcheck girl and a few waiters impatiently flicking napkins remained. Stewards were resetting the tables, sprucing the flowers for the evening visitors. It was an atmosphere of luxurious exhaustion, like a ripened, shedding rose, while all that waited outside was the failing New York afternoon.

The End