"Oh," she said, hugging the Englishwoman, "I'm so glad we met you.

Honeymoons are al very wel and good, but you have to see a bit of the world, too, don't you? Have you had time to see Notre-Dame yet?"

"We only got here this morning," her husband said. "We've hardly had time to eat."

"Wel, we must do something about that at once," Mac said. "We know a little place down by the Seine. It's wonderful, you'l love it."

"Notre-Dame is fantastic," Sylvia said. "One of the first Gothic cathedrals in the world, strongly influenced by naturalism. You're going to love the South Rose Window."

She kissed the woman on the cheek, lingering for a second.

They crossed the river on the Pont d'Arcole, passed the cathedral, and arrived at the Quai de Montebel o just as someone started playing a melancholy tune on an accordion.

"Order whatever you like," Mac said, holding the door of the bistro open.

"It's on us. We're celebrating your honeymoon."

Two they got a cozy table for four overlooking the river. The sunset was painting the buildings around them bloodred. A bateau-mouche glided past, and the accordionist switched to a more cheerful tune.

The tetchy Brit thawed out after a couple of bottles of wine. Sylvia felt his eyes on her and undid another button of her thin blouse.

She noted that the Englishwoman was stealing glances at Mac, at his fair hair, honey-colored skin, girlish eyelashes, and wel -built biceps.

"What a magical day this has been," Sylvia said when Mac had paid the bil and she was pul ing on her backpack. "I have to have a souvenir of this evening."

Mac sighed theatrical y and put a hand to his forehead. She sidled up to him and cooed, "I think Dior on Montaigne is stil open."

"This is going to be expensive," Mac groaned.

The British pair laughed out loud.

They took a taxi to Avenue Montaigne. Mac and Sylvia didn't buy anything, but the Brit pul ed out his credit card and bought a hideous silk shawl for his new wife. Mac settled for a couple of bottles of Moet Chandon from a nearby wineshop.