I produced a cigarette case, and flew a distress signal for permission.
"I should like you to be serious about this," I said.
"I? Where do I come in?"
I searched vainly for matches, and eventually had to use one of my own.
"He's in love with you," I said.
Sylvia dealt with the proposition in a series of short sentences punctuated by grave nods.
"Gratifying. If true. Seems improbable. Irrelevant, anyway. Unless I happen to be in love with him."
"I was not born yesterday," I reminded her. "Or the day before."
"You might have been."
I bowed.