"Thank you, ma'am."
"Well, bung-o," Brett said.
"Bung-o!"
"You know," Brett said, "he'd only been with two women before. He never cared about anything but bull-fighting."
"He's got plenty of time."
"I don't know. He thinks it was me. Not the show in general."
"Well, it was you."
"Yes. It was me."
"I thought you weren't going to ever talk about it."
"How can I help it?"
"You'll lose it if you talk about it."
"I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake."
"You should."
"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."
"Yes."
"It's sort of what we have instead of God."
"Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot."
"He never worked very well with me."
"Should we have another Martini?"
The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured them out into fresh glasses.
"Where will we have lunch?" I asked Brett. The bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through the window.
"Here?" asked Brett.
"It's rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place called Botin's?" I asked the barman.
"Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the address?"
"Thank you."
We lunched up-stairs at Botin's. It is one of the best restaurants
