He walked back to the chair and sat down with exaggerated resignation.

“If you don’t like my personality, you don’t have to subject yourself to it,” Mrs. Griffin said. “What are you after, anyway?”

“At the moment, a cup of coffee.”

They were quiet for several minutes, then Vy Griffin said: “I listened to your speech. You had them all buffaloed.”

“But not you?”

“No; and not you, either. I know a pitch when I hear one, Mr. Cramer. You’re a good salesman, but I don’t like what you’re selling.”

“What do you think I’m selling?”

“I’m not sure. But I don’t like it, whatever it is. And I don’t like you, either. Why don’t you leave right now?” She put the cigarette out and turned toward the window.

“I apologize, Mrs. Griffin. I was trying to be friendly. Whatever I’ve done or said to make you angry, I’m sorry. Good night.”

He started for the door.

“Wait.” The woman turned around slowly. “The—coffee’s ready. There’s no sense in wasting it.”

She took two cups from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “Do you want anything in it?”

He shook his head. “Black is all right. I go both ways.”

She handed the coffee to him, and he saw that her hand was trembling. Very slightly.

“I didn’t mean to be rude to you,” she said.

“I’ll still leave if that’s what you want.”

“No, there isn’t any reason for you to. No reason at all.”

“You’re not sleepy any more?”

“No. Just tired. There’s a difference.” Vy Griffin sat down at the foot of the bed, drew her legs beneath her and adjusted the robe. “Well,” she said, “what would you like to talk about?” Her voice was strangely hard and brittle.

He sipped the coffee. “Since I’m not very interesting,” he said, “let’s talk about you.”

“What makes you think I’m interesting?”

“I know you are. The second I laid eyes on you, I said to myself, Now here’s a fascinating woman. Attractive, sexy, smart, sharp. What’s she doing in a place like this? I wondered. Then I found the answer.”

Mrs. Griffin stared at him. The black hair was lustrous against her white city flesh, and Adam pondered whether or not she was wearing a brassière. If not, then she was built even better than he’d hoped.

“The way I figure it,” he said, smiling widely, accentuating his boyishness, “you’re an East Indian princess. You were born of a tragic union between an errant Lascar and an island Queen. Sam adopted you at the age of six, then discovered, suddenly, one day, that you were no longer his little girl but instead a ripe, full-blown woman! Am I warm?”