"From the looks of your side-board," she went on cheerily, "you were just getting ready to mix a drink. I'm an expert. Shall I mix a couple?"
He resisted the inclination to rise when she did, and deliberately kept his eyes from following her. He snatched up the paper, rustled it noisily and tried to concentrate on the headlines.
Two things distracted him. One was the faint scent of perfume and the other was the chinking of ice and glasses. He put the paper aside, tried to put his mind on distant things. This soon palled. He was about to get up and pace the floor when she returned and handed him a cool glass.
"Thanks," he said and leaned back.
She sat down again, so close that her shoulder brushed his. He edged over against the arm of the couch, putting an inch of space between them, glanced sidelong at her, and drank. He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, smacked his lips and drank again.
"What did you put in it?"
"About a spoonful of creme de menthe, a couple drops of bitters and about two ounces of rye. Like it?"
He scowled deliberately, armoring himself against his feelings. "It's fair—for a woman's mixings. You should have put in more liquor."
"Of course. I'll learn."
"Not from me," he snapped. "I'm a woman-hater."