'I know. I know,' interrupted Con's father. 'I'll keep it hush-hush till you-know-when.'
'John, I don't think you should be discussing . . .'
'She's my daughter for Christ's sake! It's only a god damned shell! Now, honey, whaddaya think?'
'About what, Daddy?'
'My shell! I was talking about my shell. I want to show it off. How should I do it?'
'I'd treat it like a sculpture and put it on a pedestal.'
'Yeah, a fancy marble column,' said her father.
'Actually,' said Con, 'a simple stone rectangle would show it better. Something rough to contrast with the shell's smoothness. Perhaps, stone with fossils in it.'
'Damn, you're clever!' said Con's father, pouring her a glass of champagne. 'Isn't she clever, Pete? She's gonna study art history.'
'Then she's fortunate to have a wealthy father,' said Green sardonically.
'Oh it'll be useful, Pete. Very useful when I make my acquisitions. I don't want any crap. Only the best stuff.'
'What acquisitions, Daddy?'
Green shot Greighton a hard, cautionary glance. 'Oh, you'll find out later, honey.' He turned his attention back to Green. 'I named her 'Constance' to keep the money rolling in. There's a family legend. Constance Cle . ..'
'Oh, don't start on Great-great-great-grandmother,' said Con, eager to leave. 'You'll bore him to tears.' John Greighton gave his daughter an irritated look, but he stopped his story. Refilling his glass, he held it up. 'A toast! To generations of good fortune and to my future in the past.' Con simply looked at her glass. 'Daddy, I don't...'
'Drink!' bellowed her father. 'And stop calling me 'Daddy,' it sounds babyish. You'll be eighteen in a month.'
Con made a point of gulping down the champagne. Setting her empty glass on the table, she said in a con-trolled voice, 'Then what should I call you?'
'I think 'sir' would be good,' said Greighton, as he refilled his daughter's glass. Con drained it also.
' ' Sir?' That's more than a little old-fashioned,' re-plied Con.
'Eighteenth century to be exact,' said her father, who seemed to think he was being witty. 'You'll find out why soon enough.'
'Can't you tell me now,
Greighton didn't seem to notice the sarcasm in Con's voice. 'No, no, that wouldn't do. Would it, Pete?' Con looked at Peter Green. He did not seem intoxi-cated at all. His cold pale eyes stared back, studying her and making her uneasy. As Con felt the first effects of the wine, she regretted drinking it. She sensed it was im-portant to remain in control of herself.
'You looked like you were going somewhere,' Green said evenly, as he refilled her glass.
'No,' she replied quickly. 'I was just out for some air.'
'You had a very purposeful stride.'
'I did? I hadn't noticed.'
'I notice things like that,' replied Green. 'I'm very observant.' The glass trembled in Con's hand. When she set it down untouched, he said, 'You mustn't waste that wine, it's the 2047 vintage.' Con took a dutiful sip.
'Finish it,' said Green in a quiet, but commanding, voice. He had a faint smile as Con drank the wine.
'Sit down,' he said. 'Relax. We're not keeping you from something?'
'No,' said Con, as she took a seat.
