They danced. And dined. And danced again. And she made it impossible to be serious any more. With all her callous cynicism and violent language, she could be a fascinating and exciting companion. The Saint found himself having a much more entertaining evening than he had expected. It was as if they instinctively recognised in each other an intense reality which in spite of all other differences made them feel as if they had known each other a hundred times longer than those few hours.
It was one o’clock when he drove her home, after a brief struggle through the regular nightly crew of autograph hunters outside.
“Come in and have a drink,” she said.
Simon thought about it, while another belated car cruised by.
“Maybe not,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Cooperation only goes so far.”
“So what?”
“So I don’t want you to call me a wolf again. But I’m human.”
“My God,” she said, “don’t you think I know the difference? Don’t you think I could... I’d like to buy you a drink,” she said.