"Partly. But you're the woman he should have when normal, not as he is now. That's—"
"So you gave him a false memory, complete with a lot of details to explain just about every possible question, hey?"
"Yep."
"And just how was this background furnished?" she demanded.
"Remember it is only temporary and need not be complete. Just sufficient to justify its being."
"Don't quibble."
Hanson laughed. "Well, when a man of seventy starts to furnish a bit of background for a youth of thirty-odd, what better than a few true experiences from the old man's past."
Ava Longacre snorted. "I'll bet you were a hellion in your youth," she snapped. "And in your old age you're a nasty old lecher."
Hanson squinted at her. "I wish I were forty again," he leered. "But worry not, m'lady. Maybe the basic idea was mine, but Maculay kissed you on his own account. And I commend his taste."
Ava uttered a single, explosive "Oh!" and stalked out angrily, slamming the door behind her. She leaned against the hardwood panels and listened to the roar of Hanson's laughter die in a slow gurgle. She pegged it properly as part hysteria; the hours of hard mental effort spent on Maculay would have taken a lot of pep out of the Old Boy, and he would then clutch at anything remotely amusing and make an uproariously funny incident out of it. But this was not funny.