After they had gone a short way, Olga Ivanovitch said very prosaically: "You owe me ten dollars for the evening."
In identically the same prosaic manner, he peeled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to her.
She put it away in her purse.
After a while she said: "I don't know what you're trying to find in Galveston, Saint, but don't find anything you don't want."
"Why should you care?" he inquired mildly.
He had his answer in something yielding and yearning that was suddenly all over him, holding his mouth with lips that fulfilled all the urgent indications that he had been doing his earnest best to ignore.
It was more or less like that until the cab stopped again on Seawall Boulevard.
"Won't you come in for a nightcap?" she said.
Her face was a white blur in the dark, framed in shadow and slashed with crimson.
"Thanks," he said, "but I have to think of my beauty. So do you."