She sighed. "All right. That's good enough for me." And then, with the morning of her smile upon him again: "You've done enough for one day's knight errantry. Let's go eat."
[13]
The restaurant was small and quiet. Corinna and Kintyre had a corner table, where the light fell gently.
"By rights we should have a Genever apéritif," he said, "but I'm convinced Dutch gin is distilled from frogs. On the other hand, Dutch beer compares to Hof, Rothausbräu, or Kronenbourg."
"You've traveled a lot, haven't you?" she said. "I envy you that. Never got farther than the Sierras myself."
A little embarrassed—he had not been trying to play the cosmopolite—he fell silent while she glanced at her menu. "Will you order for me?" she asked finally. "You know your way around these dishes."
He made his selections, pleased by the compliment. When the beer came, in conical half-liter glasses, he raised his: "Prosit."
"Salute." She drank slowly. "Wonderful. But this may not be wise on top of two whiskies."
"It's all right if you go easy. Take the word of a hardened bowser." He searched out an inward weariness on the strong broad face. "You could use a little anesthesia."