CHAPTER 13The restaurant was small and quiet. Corinna and Kintyre had a corner table, where the light fell gently.
“By rights we should have a Genever apéritif,” he said, “but I’m convinced Dutch gin is distilled from frogs. On the other hand, Dutch beer compares to Hof, Rothausbräu, or Kronenbourg.”
“You’ve traveled a lot, haven’t you?” she said. “I envy you that. Never got farther than the Sierras myself.”
A little embarrassed—he had not been trying to play the cosmopolite—he fell silent while she glanced at her menu. “Will you order for me?” she asked finally. “You know your way around these dishes.”
He made his selections, pleased by the compliment. When the beer came, in conical half-liter glasses, he raised his: “Prosit.”
“Salute.” She drank slowly. “Wonderful. But this may not
