Sullivan's Sting [antikvár]

He was a perfect gentleman, attentive, eager to please. There was something balletic in his movements: a swoop to light Mrs. Winslow's cigarette with a gold Dupont, a bow to place the black mink stole about her fleshy shoulders, a pirouette as the maitre d' came bustling up. "Was everything satisfactory, Mr. Rathbone?" "Everything was excellent, Felix," he said, and pressed a folded twenty into the waiting palm. "The zabaghone was divine,'" Mrs. Birdie Winslow said. "Something extra, wasn't there?" "Just a few drops of rum, madam. For flavor." "Marvelous idea. We must come again." "Please do," Felix said, escorting them to the door. "On Friday we shall have baked pompano with a champagne sauce." Outside, they stood a moment staring up at a lucid sky sown with rows of stars. But the easterly wind had an edge, and Mrs. Winslow wrapped her stole tighter. Rathbone slipped an arm lightly about her thick waist. "Chilly?" "Not really." He leaned closer. "Love your perfume. Obsession, isn't it?" "Oh David," she said, "you know everything." "Yes," he said solemnly, "I do." And then laughed, hugging her to share the joke. "All right, now let's test 1