I nodded. "But not ravishing. If the Hindus had untouchables at the top of the caste system—white priestesses, say—you'd qualify."
"You obviously don't know much about priestesses."
I rang for the elevator.
"That," I pointed, "is my demesne, abode, diggings—"
"I know. I asked. And moved."
"Why, exactly?"
I suppose she wanted her eyes to be interesting. They were just—disturbed. "To tease you."
"Tease whom?"
She blushed the peach tinge I'd noticed before. "Me." Then she shook her head at herself. "Because I'm lonely, maybe. Because I have a kind of phobia about hotels. I don't know."
I took her to the Crépuscule—the steps down and the moonlit air conditioning—the blue leather benches—the violin, cello, and piano accordion—the little dance floor in the corner with mirrors on two sides—and the French cuisine. The trio there has rhythm and the cellist plays maracas when he feels like it, so you can rumba.