"Then could we go somewhere and talk? I'd like to ask you some things."
"I'd love to be asked. I know a place."
It was small, dark, and masculine, undegraded by jukebox or television. Kintyre led Corinna into a booth at the rear.
"They serve steam beer," he said. "The only really good beer made in this country."
"Oof! I couldn't. Another Irish, if I may. I promise to go slow." Her tone was not as light as the words.
Nonetheless, he needed a little while to sense the trouble in her.
After much time she met his eyes, obviously forcing his own. "Dr. Kintyre," she began.
He was about to ask her to use his given name; and then he thought how little intimacy could be achieved in this American cult of first-name familiarity with all the universe. "Yes?" he said.
"I would—I would have thanked you for a wonderful time, which helped me more than you know. And then I would have gone home. But—"