It was nearly nine o’clock when the Saint woke up again, and the sun, which had been bleaching the sky before he got back to bed, was slicing brilliantly through the Venetian blinds. He felt a lot better than he had expected to. In fact, he decided, after a few minutes of lazy rolling and stretching, he felt surprisingly good. He got up, sluiced himself under a cold shower, brushed his hair, pulled on a pair of swimming trunks and a bath robe, and went out in search of breakfast.
Through the French windows of the living-room he saw Ginny sitting alone at the long table in the patio beside the barbecue. He went out and stood over her.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hullo,” he agreed. “You don’t mind if I join you?”
“Not a bit,” she said. “Why should I?”
“We could step right into a Van Druten play,” he observed.
She looked at him rather vaguely. He sat down, and in a moment Angelo was at his elbow, immaculate and impassive now in a white jacket and a black bow tie.
“Yes, sir?”
‘Tomato juice,” said the Saint. “With Worcestershire sauce. Scrambled eggs, and ham. And coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”