“Royal stuff,” I said to Clair. “I believe they’ve all fallen in love with you.”
She shook her head. “It’s your determined chin and blue eyes.”
I knew she was wrong.
The barman waited, admiring Clair without attempting to conceal the fact. He glanced at me; there was respectful envy in his eyes.
I ordered two large, very dry martinis.
We went over to a sofa seat, sat down, lit cigarettes. People looked at us, but we didn’t worry. We were happy enough in our own company. After a while, the barman brought the drinks. I
paid him, tipped him, and he went away silently, as if drawn along on wheels.
We sipped the martinis. They were very good.
There was something about the hard standard of prettiness of the women at the bar that reminded me of Lydia Hamilton. I said as much to Clair.
“Don’t let’s talk about her,” Clair said. “She was ghastly. I was so sorry for Hones. She hurt him terribly.”