She looked baffled. "My—my master doesn't want me?"
"That's right. Not for that anyway."
Her mouth turned down. Two large tears appeared. "You don't like me? You don't think I'm nice?"
"I think you're a fine cook and a nice girl. Now out with you. Good night."
She stood solidly and began to sniffle. Then she sobbed. Her voice rose to a shrill wail: "Just because I'm from the country—you never looked at me—you never asked for me all this time—then tonight you were nice—I thought—I thought— boo-oo-oo . . ."
"Now, now . . . for heaven's sake stop crying! Here, sit down. I'll get you a drink."
She smacked her lips over the first swallow of diluted brandy. She wiped off the remaining tears. "Nice," she said. Everything was nice— bonus, bona, or bonum, as the case might be. "You are nice. Love is nice. Every man should have some love. Love—ah!" She made a serpentine movement remarkable in a person of her build.
Padway gulped. "Give me that drink," he said. "I need some too."
After a while. "Now," she said, "we make love?"
"Well—pretty soon. Yes, I guess we do." Padway hiccupped.