CHAPTER 3His wife was the only woman Dave had ever known who felt about good, natural things—the sun, the sea, music and the correct proportions of vermouth and gin—as he did, and did not think it incumbent on her to chatter about them. But now, when it came to a critical appraisal of his painting, she was carrying taciturnity too far. “Quite good,” she had said. If there was one word he hated, it was that affected adverb, Quite. He sat on the couch and lit a cigarette.
Before he had time to finish it, there were footsteps on the stairs and she was back again. She had changed to white silk pajamas. They set off her brown hair and dark sun tan, and she stood before him in an attitude of amused contrition. Dave frowned, knowing that she was not contrite, but unable even as he frowned to kee
