Funny, thought Vyrtl. When we actually were strangers, she seemed so intimate. Only now does she look at me so coldly.
"You see?" she said, and started to reach for some switch or button concealed by the jewel at her breast.
Vyrtl stopped her with a gesture.
"You must also be skilled in the sciences of the mind," he remarked. "What I mean is ... I suppose you never really looked like that?"
She shook her head a trifle ruefully.
"Not quite. Most of it is in your own imagination. We know a good deal about you, Your—"
"You deduced somehow what I would look for," interrupted Vyrtl, nodding. "I can see how a study of the things I chose to have about me—paintings, statues, furnishings, even people—might yield keys to my preferences. You did remarkably well."
He tossed another pebble and stared at the ripples.
"I suppose every man has his ideal of a woman," he said. "I doubt that any man has seen his absolute ideal—except me. I wonder if you know what it does to one?"
He chose a flat pebble and sent it skipping across the surface with a vicious snap of his wrist. It bounced three ... four ... five times, and sank.