Clos du Bois, 1997. Gasp, an American wine in London? I hand you a glass, then take mine. Still holding hands, we raise the glasses to toast this roma...ce, then we turn to face Jeanne and raise our glasses to this beautiful Madonna. We sip. Not bad. But good because this night is good. The air is not cool, not hot. Just right. We kick off our shoes. The room darkens as we drink, and walk around the bare room, looking at Degas’ self-portrait as an old man. The poor soul, cursed with failing. ) He felt at that moment that he could do anything, capture anyone. He let the landfay have a good hard cry. When the sobs had died down somewhat, he asked, quite needlessly: "So . . . have I caught you?" "Y-yes (sniff!). You've . . . (choke!) mastered me . . . though I'm still not certain how . . . .? "Would you like more time to lament your discomfiture?" "V-very ch-chivalrous of you, Sir, but I think . . . I think I'd better warn you of something." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "What's. More

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