The screen above the defendant's head began to cloud and draw in.

"It is cold outside ... the snow is falling. There is a warm room. A fire is burning...."

The mists opalesced and formed a nucleus.

"There is a pool of light on the desk, unexpected flowers in a bowl, the odor of duck, roasted brown...."

Something was struggling for existence in the screen.

"There is a brown-haired woman—"

And the image was born....

She bent over a card. "Candlelight, best service for two, white wine, celebration atmosphere," she wrote and put it into the dining table selector. Somewhere an orchestra started playing Debussy.

"John," she called. "Almost ready."

A card shot back at her from the mirror as she passed. "Your nose is shiny," it read. She powdered quickly, taming wisps of hair as an afterthought.

"Any further comments?" she wanted to know, and held out her hand. A second card appeared. "I can't whistle."

Her laughter brimmed over, laced in delight. "John, dinner's ready."

She called into three rooms, empty rooms. Crossing to the terrace, she opened a door on the night. Snowflakes rode in on an icy draft.

"Well?"

"John! What are you doing out there? I can't even see you."

"That seems to be one of your habits recently."

She drew him inside, and leaned against the door, closing. "Is it going to be like that tonight?"

"Maybe." His face was steeped in cold.

"Please. Not the day before you go."

The white crystals on his hair melted into drops, and a sudden warmth strained all harshness from his voice. "No, you're right, Mary. Not the day before I go."

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