“I’ve taken quite a fancy to whisky-and-lemon hot,” she informed Michael. “You know. Anyone does, don’t they? Get a sudden fit and keep on keeping on with one drink, I mean. This’ll be my sixth to-night. But I’m a long way off being drunk, kiddie. Do you like my new hat? I reckon it’ll bring me luck.”
“I expect it will,” Michael said.
“You are serious, aren’t you? When I first saw you I thought you was the spitting image of a fellow I know—Bert Saunders, who writes about the boxing matches for Crime Illustrated. He’s more of a bright-eyes than you are, though.”
The whisky-and-lemon arrived, and she drank Michael’s health.
“Funny-tasting stuff when you come to think of it,” she said meditatingly. “What’s your name, kiddie?”
He told her.
“Michael,” she repeated. “You’re a Jew, then?”
He shook his head.
“Well, kid, I suppose you know best, but Michael is a Jewish name, isn’t it? Michael? Of course it is. I don’t mind Jew fellows myself. One or two of them have been very good to me. My name’s Daisy Palmer.”
The conversation languished slightly, because Michael since his encounter with Poppy at Neptune Crescent was determined to be very cautious.