But Simon Templar was still alive for no more fundamental reason than that he had never thought what any ordinary person would think — or was intended to think. So that he could stand far back and see that if he were the Ungodly and he wanted to hook Simon Templar, he might easily play the cards something like that.
And why had Avalon accepted the invitation anyhow?
The Saint's lips hardened over the reminder that he always had to think like that. He had had to do it for so long that it was a habit now. And now, for the first time in an infinitude of years, he was conscious of it again.
And it wasn't any fun at all, and there was no pleasure at all in the knowledge of his own wisdom and vigilance; because this was Avalon, and this wasn't the way he wanted to think about Avalon.
Avalon with her russet locks tossing like the woods of New England in the fall, and her brown eyes that laughed so readily and looked so straight.
But Patrick Hogan with his ingenuous joviality and the gun on his hip. Patrick Hogan with his uninhibited young sailor's zest for a spree, and his cheerful acceptance of Kay Natello. Patrick Hogan, whom the Saint had hooked so deftly as a sponsor — who had been so very willing to be hooked.
And the Parkway stretching ahead, and the soothing murmurs of movement.
And Avalon with the friendliness and the passion meeting at her mouth, and the music always in her voice.
And the great hospitality of Cookie and Zellermann, and the glances that went between them.
And the headlights reaching out to suck in the road.