you? There seems a lot of it.”
“Sounds as if you’re inviting yourself to lunch,” she said, smiling. “I’m Virginia Laverick.
141
If you haven’t anything better to do …”
I jumped to my feet.
“I haven’t a thing. I guess I’m sick of my own company, and meeting you …”
I picked up the easel and her other stuff when she had packed it, and went with her across
the hot sand.
“I can’t ask you in,” she said suddenly, “I live alone.”
“That’s okay,” I said, only too glad to be walking at her side. “But I’m harmless, or maybe
you don’t think so.”
She laughed.
“Big men usually are,” she said.
After a short walk we came to a bungalow, screened by flowering shrubs, with a green-painted roof and gay flowers in the window-boxes and a wide verandah on which were
lounging chairs, a radio set and a refectory table.
“Sit down,” she said, waving to one of the chairs. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get you a
drink - Scotch?”
“Fine,” I said.
“I won’t be a minute.”
But she was a lot longer than that, and I was pacing up and down the verandah, my nerves
on the jump again, by the time she reappeared. I saw why she had been so long. She had
changed out of the sun-suit which she had probably decided wasn’t suitable to be wearing
when entertaining a strange man in an empty bungalow, and she was now in a white linen
dress, shoes and stockings. I gave her full marks for good sense.
She carried a tray on which were bottles, glasses and plates of sandwiches. She set down
the tray on the table, smiling at me.
“Go ahead and fix yourself a drink,” she said. “If you feel like eating, there’s plenty.”
I poured myself a big slug of Scotch, splashed ice water in it, while she flopped into an
armchair and started on the sandwiches.
142
“You look as if you’ve been in a fight,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.” I felt my nose, embarrassed. It was still a little sore and swollen. “I got
into an argument with a guy. It looks worse than it feels.” I took a mouthful of Scotch. It hit
the spot all right.
She was drinking orange juice, and I was aware she watched me just a little uneasily.
“It’s nice of you to take pity on me,” I said. “I was feeling pretty low. You know how it is.
I’ve been around on my own, and got sick of my own company.”
“I thought there were lots of attractive girls staying at the casino.”
“Maybe there are, but they don’t happen to be my style.”
She smiled.
“What is your style?”
I never believe in pulling punches, in or out of the ring. I let her have it.
“Well, you are, I guess,” I said, and added hastily, “and don’t think that’s your cue to yell
for help. You asked me, and I’ve told you, and another thing while we’re on the subject, I’m
not the type who makes a girl yell for help.”
She looked steadily at me.
“I didn’t think you were or I wouldn’t have asked you here.”
That took care of that. Anyway, it cleared the air. She started talking about her work. From
what she told me it seemed to be well paid, and she seemed to do more or less what she liked,
