"Of course I have. It's been there since birth."
"Very, very, clever, Winnie," she continued, "but it won't do, my Winnie, because you see you aren't my Winnie at all. You're a total stranger."
"I've changed," I admitted. "I'm trying to be half-way decent."
"Whoever wanted Winnie to be half-way decent?" she mused. "Nobody. He was much pleasanter as he was—a rich, friendly boob. As for you, whoever you are, I'm on to your game. You aren't Winfred Tompkins and you know it."
I put some heavy sarcasm into my reply. "How did you ever guess, Mrs. Rutherford?"
She laughed airily, helped herself to a cigarette and leaned forward while I lighted it so that I could not help seeing deep into the straining V of her blouse.
"Lots of things. In the first place, you call me 'Virginia' when we're alone instead of 'Bozo' as you always used to do."
"I stopped calling you 'Bozo' when I made up my mind—" I began.
"Nuts to you, Buddy," she rejoined. "Then you kept pulling at your ear as though you were milking a cow, while I was needling you. Winnie never did that. When he was in a spot, he always reached in his pocket and jingled his change or, as a desperate measure, twiddled his keys."
"Don't judge my habits by my hang-overs," I insisted. "I'm not feeling well and I've had a sort of psychic shock."