"See what I mean? A handy—but otherwise irrelevant fact."
She laughed. "Do you live here?"
"I'm staying here—on the sixteenth floor. For a few days."
"I am, too."
"You got mad at Mr. Prentiss," I said then, "and fled from your sprawling mansion out in the golden West to the sidewalks of New York—familiar to you in your girlhood. Your problem was not 'other women'—so what was it? Neglect? Brutality? Obsession? Bestiality? Stamp collecting? What?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
Just then, Fred came by. He's a waiter I know pretty well. "Look, Fred," I said, "I've made her cry. Bring another brandy."
She was struggling. "Shouldn't it be a beer?"
"If you go on crying."