"Cornelius." Her hand fell to rest on his shoulder, long fingers tipped with richly blue nails, tinted skin a background to the gleam of gems set in wide bands of silver. Looking at the painting she said, "Another composition. It's superb!"

"No."

"You are too critical. That man-I can feel his pain."

"And?" He shrugged as she frowned. "Is that all you see? A man in pain-nothing else?"

Her hesitation was answer enough. He had failed and by working on now he would only accentuate the failure. Later, when less tired, he would again examine the painting.

Rising, he applied solvent to his hands, ridding them of traces of pigments. As he worked he said, casually, "Did you enjoy your swim?"

"It was exercise."

"And Achiab? Was he also exercise?"

"When you are hungry, Cornelius, you eat." She turned to look at an unfinished statuette. "You were busy and I was restless. Achiab was a means of passing the time. We enjoyed an interlude, together, though, I must admit, I was disappointed. He was not as I remembered."

"Perhaps he, too, was merely hungry?"

"Perhaps."

"Or," he said dryly, "maybe he was simply bored."

She turned, stung, meeting his eyes as he finished cleaning his hands, her own eyes hard beneath the finely drawn arch of her brows. For a long moment she stared at him and then, shrugging, turned away. A whisper came from the chimes as she headed toward the door.

"Ursula-I'm sorry!"

She paused and turned, the suspended chimes catching the vibrations of her voice, providing a muted accompaniment to her accusation.

"You checked-why?"

"An accident."

"What I do, where I go, whom I see-what are they to you?"

"It was an accident, Ursula, you must believe me." He gestured toward the painting. "I was studying this. The figure seemed wrong and I was checking anatomical detail. And then, I suppose-"