-Thanks for the drink, Anne.

She didn't protest. She followed me to the door. But when she shook my hand at the threshold, she held it for a moment longer than is normally polite.

-Keep in mind what I've said, Katey. About the understanding that we could reach.

-Anne . . .

-I know. You don't know where he is. But something tells me you're going to hear from him before I do.

She let go and I turned toward the elevator. Its doors were open and the elevator boy briefly met my eye. It was the same friendly young man who had elevated me and the unnewlyweds back in June.

-Kate.

-Yes? I asked, turning back.

-Most people have more needs than wants. That's why they live the lives they do. But the world is run by those whose wants outstrip their needs.

I mulled this over for a moment. It led me to one conclusion: -You're very good with the closing remark, Anne.

-Yes, she said. It's one of my specialties.

Then she softly shut the door.

When I left the Plaza, again the doorman nodded to me without signaling a cab. Conceding the point, I began walking down Sixth Avenue. In no mood to go home, I slipped into a Marlene Dietrich picture at the Ambassador. The picture was an hour under way, so I watched the second half and then stayed for the first. Like most movies, things looked dire at the midpoint and were happily resolved at the end. Watching it my way made it seem a little truer to life.

Outside the theater I hailed a cab in order to teach the doorman a lesson, retroactively. As we drove downtown, I debated what I should get drunk on once I was home. Red wine? White wine? Whiskey? Gin? Like people in the world of Mason Tate, they each had their virtues and vices. Maybe I'd leave it to chance. Maybe I'd blindfold myself, spin around, and pin the tail on the bottle. Just the thought of such a game lifted my spirits. But when I got out of the cab at Eleventh Street, who should appear but Theodore Grey. He emerged from a doorway like a fugitive. Except that he was wearing a clean white shirt and a peacoat that had never set eyes on the sea.

As a quick aside, let me observe that in moments of high emotion-whether they're triggered by anger or envy, humiliation or resentment-if the next thing you're going to say makes you feel better, then it's probably the wrong thing to say. This is one of the finer maxims that I've discovered in life. And you can have it, since it's been of no use to me.

-Hello, Teddy.

-Katey, I need to talk to you.

-I'm late for a date.

He winced.

-Can't you give me five minutes?

-All right. Shoot.

He looked around the street.

-Isn't there a place where we can sit down?

I took him to the coffee shop on the corner of Twelfth and Second. The place was one hundred feet long and ten feet wide. A cop at the counter was building the Empire State Building out of sugar cubes and two Italian boys sat at the back eating steak and eggs. We took the booth near the front. When the waitress asked if we were ready to order, Tinker looked up as if he didn't understand the question.

-Why don't you bring us coffee, I said.

The waitress rolled her eyes.

Tinker watched her walk away. Then he dragged his gaze back to me as if it took an act of will. He had a satisfying grayness to the skin and rings under the eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping or eating well. It made his clothes look borrowed, which in a way, I suppose they were.

-I want to explain, he said.

-What's to explain?

-You've got every reason to be angry.

-I'm not angry.

-But I didn't seek out my situation with Anne.

First Anne wants to explain her situation with Tinker. Now Tinker wants to explain his situation with Anne. I guess there are two sides to every story. And, as usual, they were both excuses.

-I've got a great little anecdote for you, I said, interrupting him. You'll think it's a hoot. But before I get to that, let me ask you a few things.

He looked up with grim resignation.

-Was Anne actually an old friend of your mother's?

-No. I was at Providence Trust when we met. The head of the bank invited me to a party in Newport. . . .

-And this exclusive arrangement you have-this concession to sell the shares of a railroad-those are her holdings?

-Yes.

-Were you her banker before or after your situation?

-I don't know. When we met, I told her I wanted to move to New York. She offered to introduce me to some people. To help me get on my feet.

I whistled.

-Wow.

I shook my head in appreciation.

-The apartment?

-It's hers.

-Nice coat by the way. Where do you keep them all? Now what was I about to tell you? Oh yeah. I think you'll find this funny. A few nights after Eve bounced you, she threw herself such a celebration that she passed out in an alley. The cops found my name in her pocket and they picked me up to identify her. But before they let us go, a nice detective sat me down with a cup of coffee and tried to get us to change our ways. Because he thought we were prostitutes. Given Evey's scars, he assumed she'd been roughed up on the job.

I raised my eyebrows and toasted Tinker with my coffee cup.

-Now, how ironic is that!

-That's unfair.

-Is it?

I took a sip of coffee. He didn't bother to defend himself, so I barreled ahead.

-Did Eve know? About you and Anne, I mean.

He shook his head wanly. The very definition of wanly. The apotheosis of wanly.

-I think she suspected there might be another woman. But I doubt she realized it was Anne.

I looked out the window. A fire truck rolled to a stop at the traffic light with all the firemen standing on the runners, hanging from the hooks and ladders, dressed for a fire. A boy on the corner holding his mother's hand waved and all the firemen waved back-God bless them.

-Please, Katey. It's over between Anne and me. I came back from Wallace's to tell her. That's why we were having lunch.

I turned back to Tinker thinking out loud.

-I wonder if Wallace knew?

Tinker winced again. He just couldn't shake that wounded look. It was suddenly inconceivable that he had seemed so attractive. In retrospect, he was so obviously a fiction-with his monogrammed this and his monogrammed that. Like that silver flask in its leather sheath, which he must have topped off in his spotless kitchen with a tiny little funnel-despite the fact that on every other street corner in Manhattan you can buy whiskey in a bottle that's sized for your pocket.

When you thought of Wallace in his simple gray suit giving quiet counsel to the silver-haired friends of his father, Tinker seemed a vaudeville performer by comparison. I suppose we don't rely on comparison enough to tell us whom it is that we are talking to. We give people the liberty of fashioning themselves in the moment-a span of time that is so much more manageable, stageable, controllable than is a lifetime.

Funny. I had looked upon this encounter with such dread. But now that it was here, I was finding it kind of interesting; helpful; even encouraging.

-Katey, he said, or rather implored. I'm trying to tell you. That part of my life is over.

-Same here.

-Please, don't say that.

-Hey! I said cheerfully, cutting him off again. Here's one for you: Have you ever been camping? I mean, actually camping in the woods? With the jackknives and the compasses?

This seemed to strike a chord. I could see his jaw muscles tense.

-You're going too far, Katey.

-Really? I've never been there. What's it like?

He looked down at his hands.

-Boy, I said. If your mother could only see you now.

Tinker rose abruptly. He banged his thigh into the corner of the table, disturbing the tranquility of the cream in its pitcher. He laid a fivedollar bill by the sugar, showing appropriate consideration for our waitress.

-Coffee's on Anne? I asked.

He staggered to the door like a drunk.

-Is this too far? I called after him. It doesn't seem so bad!

I put another five dollars on the table and got up. As I walked toward the door I staggered a little too. I looked up and down Second Avenue like a wolf that's escaped from its cage. I checked my watch. The hands were splayed between the nine and the three, like two duelers back-to-back who have counted off paces and are about to turn and fire.

The night was young.

It took Dicky five minutes to answer the banging on his door. We hadn't seen each other since we crashed the party at Whileaway.

-Katey! What a terrific surprise. Terrific and . . . hieroglyphic. He was dressed in tuxedo pants and a formal shirt. He must have been tying his tie when I began knocking because it was hanging freely from his collar. It made him look dashing in an untied-black-tie kind of way.

-May I?

-Absolutely!

When I had gotten off the subway uptown, I had stopped for a drink or two at an Irish bar on Lexington. So I slid past him into the living room a little like a will-o'-the-wisp. I had only been in Dicky's place when it was crowded with people. Empty, I could see how orderly Dicky was under his gay exterior. Everything was in its proper place. The chairs were arranged in alignment with the cocktail table. The books in the bookcases were organized by author. The freestanding ashtray was just to the right of the reading chair and the nickel-plated architect's lamp just to the left.

Dicky was staring at me.

-You're a redhead again!

-Not for long. How about a drink?

Obviously expected elsewhere, Dicky pointed toward the front door and opened his mouth. I raised my left eyebrow.

-Why, yes, he conceded. A drink is just the thing.

He went to a fine Macassar cabinet along the wall. The front panel came down like the writing surface of a secretary.

-Whiskey?

-Your pleasure is mine, I said.

He poured us both a dram and we clinked glasses. I emptied mine and held it out in the air. He opened his mouth again as if he was going to speak but emptied his glass instead. Then he poured us both more suitable portions. I took a swig and spun around once as if to get my bearings.

-It's a lovely place, I said. But I don't think I've seen the whole thing.

-Of course, of course. Where are my manners? Right this way!

He gestured through a door. It led into a little dining room lit by taper-style sconces. The colonial table had probably been in the family since New York was a colony.

-Here lies the refectory. The table's designed for six, but seats fourteen in a pinch.

At the other end of the dining room was a swinging door with a porthole. We went through it into a kitchen that was as clean and white as heaven.