Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. The door opened. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. No— no, it must never be.
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