The waiter stared sullenly for a moment.
"Well, all right. But no more cracks about my brother-in-law, see?"
He went away. The Saint watched him for a moment, decided against any action. His attention drifted from the waiter to the Pairfield murals.
"It's an odd mind," he remarked, "that can contrive such unattractive innovations in the female form divine." He indicated a large sprawling figure on the far wall. "Take Gertie over there. Even if her hips did have Alemite lubrication points all over them, is it quite fair to let the whole world in on her secret?"
"What I like," Avalon said, "is the hedge for hair. That penthouse effect throws me."
"I'm sorry," James Prather said, "but I feel a little uncomfortable looking at those designs. This one over here, with each lock of hair ending in a hangman's knot. I—"
He broke off, with an ineffectual gesture with his pale hands.
"The poor man's Dali," murmured the Saint. "Here come our — what are those drinks?"
They were pale green, in tall flared glasses, each with a twist of lime peel floating near the top.
The Saint repeated his question to the sullen waiter.