as ridiculous, the attraction that seemed to emanate from her.
It actually made me weak.

And she was staring at me, too.

"If you're hungry," she said finally, "get a sandwich. You won't find me
stingy.... What in the world is that material in that suit, Fred?"

"I don't know," I said. "You are beautiful, Jean."

She smiled. "Well, thanks. You can have a piece of pie, too, for that.
That certainly is a fine weave in that material. What did your tailor
call it?"

We were next to a sort of alcove, furnished with a table and two
high-backed benches, and she sat down. I sat across from her.

[Illustration]

"I don't have a tailor," I said. "Your lips are so red, Jean."

She frowned. "Slowly, sailor."

Then a waitress was there, and I saw how red her lips were, too, and I
realized it was another of the old vices I'd forgotten, cosmetics.

"Just coffee, for me, black," Jean said. "Golden boy over there will
have a beef barbecue, probably, won't you, Fred?"

"I guess," I said. "And some milk, cow's milk."

Jean laughed. "It's my money. Have canary milk."

"Not tonight," I said.

The waitress went away, and there was a noticeable period of silence.
Jean was tracing some design on the table top with her index finger. Her
nails, too, were painted, I saw. I liked the effect of that.

She looked up, and faced me gravely, "Fred, you're a very attractive
gent, which you undoubtedly know. Are you connected with pictures?"

I shook my head. "Just a traveler, a tourist."

She said, "Oh" and went back to tracing the design. I thought her finger
trembled.

A very dim smile on her face, and she didn't look away from the table
top. "You've been--picked up before, undoubtedly."

"No. What kind of talk is this, Jean?"

Now, she looked up. "Crazy talk. You're no New Yorker, Freddy lad.
You're a Middle Westerner; you can't fool me. Fresh from the farm and
craving cow's milk."

"I never saw a cow in my life," I told her truthfully, "though I've
heard about them. What makes you think I'm from a farm?"

"Your freshness, your complexion and--everything about you."

The waitress brought our food, then, and I didn't answer. I tried to
keep my eyes away from Jean as I ate; I had a mission, here, and no time
for attachments beyond the casual. I was sure, even then, that loving
Jean Decker would never qualify as casual.

She drank her coffee and smoked; I ate.

She asked, "Where are you staying, in town, Fred? I'm sober e