"Then why come here at all?"
"Thought we'd agreed a little everyday discretion wouldn't do us any harm."
"What are you afraid of? Your wife?"
Bellamy answered only with a fatigued look. The cocktail was being served.
"And the melon, monsieur—shall I bring it at once?"
"Please."
The tone was crisp if the word was civil. Amelie sipped her mixed poisons, mysterious malice informing the eyes that watched Bellamy over the rim of the glass.
"Why take it out on the waiter if you're in a temper with me?"
"I'm not, Amy, I—" Bellamy caught himself, and permitted impatience to find an outlet in a sound of polite expostulation: "Really!"
Amelie put aside an empty glass. Refreshed and fortified, she brooded with sultry eyes while wedges of under-ripe casaba bedded in cracked ice were set before them.