A big fan in the corner blew humid air across us.

‘My name’s George Hamilton,’ I said.

She dropped the book on a chair beside her. ‘Forsyth. Marian Forsyth. How do you do, Mr. Hamilton?’

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Just two days,’ she replied.

‘You know, I keep thinking I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

Again I was conscious of the urbane amusement in the eyes. ‘Really? I thought we had by-passed that one.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s on the level. There is something familiar about you. Where are you staying?’

‘The Hibiscus Motel, just up the street.’

‘Then we’re neighbours. I’m there too.’

‘That might have been where you saw me. In the lobby, perhaps.’

‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see why I’d be so hazy about it. You’re quite striking, you know. I mean, the Black Irish colouring, and the classic line of that hair-do. It sings.’

She propped her elbows on the table, with her chin on her laced fingers, and smiled. ‘And what other personality problems do you have, Mr. Hamilton, besides shyness?’

I grinned. ‘I’m sorry. Seriously, though, if any Charles or Antoine ever tries to tout off that chignon, shoot him.’

“That seems a little drastic, doesn’t it? But—if you insist.’ Then she added, ‘Incidentally, I’m not Irish. I’m Scottish. My maiden name was Forbes.’

I was reaching for cigarettes in the pocket of the robe, which was on the chair beside me. When I glanced up at her, there was nothing in her face but that same cool good humour. ‘Oh?’ I said. Then I remarked, ‘I didn’t know you were married.’ She wore no ring.

‘I’m divorced,’ she said. ‘Where are you from, Mr. Hamilton?’

The barman brought over the drinks. ‘Texas,’ I told her.

She took a sip of the Scotch and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I’d never have known it. You don’t sound a bit like a Texan.’

‘I’m not a professional,’ I said. ‘It’s a fallacy, anyway.