‘That is not what I mean,’ she choked. ‘When you love someone, I mean. I mean it’s sort of difficult to put. When you could put your head in the gas-oven, and damn who’s gunna pay the bill.’

Because she did not have the words, she got out her lipstick, and began to persecute her mouth.

Ladies were looking by now into the expensive car. Their glass eyes expressed surprise.

‘Lof!’ Tibby Szabo laughed. ‘Lof is viz ze sahoul!’ Then he grew very angry; he could have been throwing his hand away. ‘Faht do zay know of lof?’ he shouted. ‘Here zere is only stike and bodies!’

Then they were looking into each other, each with an expression that suggested they might not arrive beyond a discovery just made.

Miss Slattery lobbed the paper-bag almost into the municipal bin.

‘I am sursty,’ Tibby complained.

Indeed, salt formed in the corners of his mouth. Could it be that he was going to risk drinking deeper of the dregs?

‘This Pacific Ocean,’ Miss Slattery said, or cried, ‘is all on the same note. Drive us home, Tibby,’ she said, ‘and make love to me.’

As he released the brake, the prawn-coloured bodies on the asphalt continued to lumber up and down, regardless.

‘Listen,’ Miss Slattery said, ‘a girl friend of Phyllis Wimble’s called Apple is giving a party in Woolloomooloo. Saturday night, Phyllis says. It’s going to be bohemian.’

Szabo Tibor drew his lower lip.

‘Austrahlian-bohemian-proveenshul. Zere is nossing veuorse zan bohemian-proveenshul.’

‘Try it and see,’ Miss Slattery advised, and bitterly added: ‘A lot was discovered only by mistake.’

‘And faht is zis Epple?’

‘She is an oxywelder.’

‘A vooman? Faht does she oxyveld?’

‘I dunno. Objects and things. Apple is an artist.’

Apple was a big girl in built-up hair and pixie glasses. The night of the party most of her objects had been removed, all except what she said was her major work.

‘This is Hypotenuse of Angst,’ she explained. ‘It is considered very powerful.’

And smiled.

‘Will you have claret?’ Apple asked. ‘Or perhaps you prefer Scotch or gin. That will depend on whoever brings it along.’

Apple’s party got under way. It was an old house, a large room running in many directions, walls full of Lovely Textures.

‘Almost everybody here,’ Phyllis Wimble confided, ‘is doing something.’

‘What have you brought, Phyl?’ Miss Slattery asked.

‘He is a grazier,’ Phyllis said, ’that a nurse I know got tired of.’

‘He is all body,’ Miss Slattery said, now that she had learnt.

‘What do you expect?’

Those who had them were tuning their guitars.

‘Those are the Spanish guitarists,’ Phyllis explained. ‘And these are English teddies off a liner. They are only the atmosphere. It’s Apple’s friends who are doing things.’

‘Looks a bit,’ the grazier hinted.

Phyllis shushed him.

‘You are hating it, Tib,’ Miss Slattery said.

Tibby Szabo drew down his lip.

‘I vill get dronk. On Epple’s plonk.’

She saw that his teeth were ever so slightly decalcified. She saw that he was a little, fat black man, whom she had loved, and loved still. From habit. Like biting your nails.