“Found your book, Miriam?” he cried, as she came near.
“No. I couldn’t see anything. So I shut my eyes and whirled round and pointed.”
“Your shameless superstitions, Miriam.”
“I am. I’ve got a lovely one I hadn’t seen.”
“A lovely one. A——”
“I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“You’re just going to sit down and munch it up. Miriam’s a paradox. She’s the omnivorous gourmet.”
“Can I have a cigarette?”
“Her authors—we’ll get you a cigarette, Miriam, no, alright, here they are—her authors, the only authors she allows, can be counted rather more than twice, on the fingers of one hand.”
She took two cigarettes, lighting one from his neatly struck match and retired to a distant chair.