Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She smiled at him. "By the way. You don't know my name. Lora Hunt."
She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. "Conger is my name," he murmured.
"Conger? Is that your last or first name?"
"Last or first?" He hesitated. "Last. Omar Conger."
"Omar?" She laughed. "That's like the poet, Omar Khayyam."
"I don't know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough—" He broke off. She was staring. He flushed. "Where I come from," he finished.
"The Church? Which church do you mean?"
"The Church." He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.
"You're an unusual person," she said. "Bill didn't like you, but he never likes anything different. He's so—so prosaic. Don't you think that when a person gets older he should become—broadened in his outlook?"
Conger nodded.