He didn’t return until after six-thirty. He was jaunty as he’d always been after seeing that woman, and he was slightly alcoholic. He didn’t notice that she was wearing the pale blue swiss, wide ruffles to the waist, a tiny ripple squaring the neck; he didn’t know the dress was a dream, that she’d designed it for Oppy’s favorite ingenue, and that it looked better on her than on the slightly bawdy young actress.
All he said was, “Hello, hon. Ready to go?”
She nodded. “Aren’t we a little early?”
“Thought we might stop for a drink on the way.”
“You’ve had enough as usual.” He wanted to go back to that truly sinister bar; even an afternoon with Dare hadn’t made him forget Pembrooke. She prayed the major wouldn’t be there.
He was whistling by the window when she returned with her army-brow
