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“Don’t men ever get over the fact that we’re as smart as they? Our brain pans are
     the same size—we’ve just been chained to the kitchen and diaper pail throughout history.”
    “You’re right,” he said. He gave her a sheepish grin. “That was thoughtless of me. Where would you like to have dinner?”
    “Is this on Transatlantic?”
    “You bet!”
    “Gurney’s. You don’t mind the drive, do you?”
    He laughed. “On an April night on Long Island, with a girl like you and in my convertible, with the prospect of lobster and
     champagne?”
    Myra smiled and cocked her head, as if she weren’t sure she liked so much enthusiasm.
    “A Cord! Is
that
your car?” she exclaimed as they stepped outside.
    “You like it?”
    “Yes. Did you get the V-12?”
    “I put a Packard Twin-Six in it myself.”
    “I wouldn’t have a car without front-wheel drive,” she said. “Did you beef up the shocks?”
    “Yes. Too springy otherwise.”
    “It’s beautiful. One day I’m going to have one. With a Hanley supercharger.”
    “I don’t think I ever took out a lady who wanted to own a Cord.”
    “Oh, I love it. Can we put the top down?”
    “What about your hair?”
    “Hang my hair! I want to feel the wind in it.”
    By the time he got the top down and they had swung out onto Highway 27, it was 7:30 and dusk. They were nearly alone on the
     narrow blacktop road, and the smooth ride of the car through the cool valley the asphalt road made between the oak and pine
     trees gave them the feeling that they were driving through some enchanted forest to an inn never to be found on ordinary earth.
     At the end of an hour’s drive, during which Lockwood’s car radio picked up Glen Miller’s hour on WCBS, the car crunched onto
     the gravel drive leading to Gurney’s.
    An attendant took the car, and because this was a Wednesday night, they easily got a table looking out over the Atlantic.
    “You know, I didn’t have lunch,” Lockwood said. “Sherry to start?”
    “Whatever you’re having,” she said, smiling as if her compliant answer were some sort of joke, as if she were perfectly capable
     of choosing a drink for herself, but she would play the game.
    “My boss is going to have a fit when he sees this bill,” Lockwood said to her. “I’m going to tell him it was the only way
     I could get any information out of you.”
    “Oh? Is this business as well as pleasure?”
    “I’m hoping to learn a thing or two about the care and feeding of bombsights, and why a pretty lady would make them rather
     than babies.”
    The waiter materialized from nowhere and in a murmur inquired if Lockwood wanted to order. Myra smiled benignly as the two
     went into a huddle over the bill of fare and soon reached an understanding. First, oysters on the halfshell with a half bottle
     of cold Rhine wine. Then the thin turtle soup that was a house speciality, followed by lobster Thermidor, wild rice, and broccoli,
     to be served with a bottle of 1931 French champagne.
    Lockwood felt exhilarated, as if he had never been anywhere in his life in which he felt more certain of being at the right
     time and place. The band struck up Dorsey’s latest horn number, “Wandering Without You,” and Lockwood asked Myra to dance.
    Only two other couples rose to join them, and while there weren’t many diners at this hour on Wednesday night—no more than
     forty altogether in a room that held two hundred—after a minute or two most of them watched Lockwood and Myra glide across
     the floor. Lockwood loved to dance and danced well: he held himself straight from the waist up and moved his legs in long
     gliding movements. He felt Myra must be floating a quarter inch off the floor, she followed him so effortlessly.
    “What a swell dancer you are, Miss Rodman!”
    “You’re no slouch yourself,” she said and gave him a wide grin.
    “You’re full of surprises. Smart as Madame Curie, beautiful as Vivian Leigh, a tongue as sharp as Kate’s,