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I’ll have a really frigid daiquiri.”
    She watched him as he did things swiftly and expertly. The daiquiri, when she tasted it, met her specifications so perfectly that she felt it only fair to say so.
    â€œThis daiquiri is quite superior,” she said.
    â€œA daiquiri, when properly made, merits praise indeed,” he said, leaning over the bar. He had a dark sort of voice that went with his hair and skin and eyes, and it made Prin want to wriggle all over. “It is, in fact, a drinker’s drink, one might say. I have never been able to grasp the greater popularity of, for example, the martini, even in our supposedly cultivated circles. Are you aware that the late Ernest Hemingway drank daiquiris by the gallon? Not all at once, of course.”
    Prin was enchanted. “Perhaps that was because he lived in Cuba. A rum country.” She waited for this delightful young bartender to laugh appreciatively at her play on words; but he did not, and she felt somehow that it had been unworthy of her. “I mean, environment and all that.”
    â€œI doubt it,” said Coley indulgently, and she knew he had forgiven her momentary lapse from good taste. It made her feel better. “I consider it much likelier that it was the esthetic instinct. In serious matters like the gustative arts, writers—serious writers, of course—tend to be connoisseurs.”
    â€œYou mean that all serious writers drink daiquiris?”
    â€œWell, no, they don’t. I admit it’s an egregious fallacy in my syllogism. Some drink whisky, some gin, some vodka—I’ve heard that the late Bernard Shaw drank carrot juice or some such incredible fluid.”
    â€œDo you always use words like gustative and egregious and syllogism?” Prin said. “If you do, I shan’t be able to talk to you. I’m almost over my depth already.”
    â€œI’m only showing off.” Oh, that grin . “It’s the grown-up substitute for boyhood handsprings when a pretty girl is watching. Please go on talking with me. I promise to use only one-syllable words.”
    â€œIt’s not necessary to go to extremes,” Prin retorted, a little nettled, but pleased at the same time by the adjective he had used before the word girl. “Anyway, there are too many one-syllable words that are not quite gentil , if you know what I mean.”
    â€œI do indeed,” said Coley. “I’ll keep everything proper, at least for the nonce. Which reminds me. We haven’t been properly introduced.”
    â€œSince when does propriety require a bartender to be introduced to a customer?” Good grief, Prin thought, I’m being arch .
    â€œSince right now. My name is Coley Collins.”
    â€œI’m Princess O’Shea, and if you say ‘Hello, Your Highness,’ I’ll get off this stool and you’ll never see me again.”
    â€œHello, Prin.”
    â€œYou know my nickname!” Prin said.
    â€œThen you are related to Mr. Slater O’Shea. He’s spoken to me about you in glowing terms. I see now that he didn’t glow brightly enough.”
    â€œIf you’ve met Uncle Slater professionally,” said Prin, “you must know he can glow like the working end of a Titan taking off from its pad. Yes, I’m Uncle Slater’s niece. We all live with him—me, Aunt Lallie, my cousins Twig and Peet, and my brother Brady. We’re freeloading, although I’m not doing quite so much of it as the others.”
    â€œDamn it to hell!” said Coley Collins; and then he said, “Don’t go, please . I have to get rid of this goddam customer.”
    He sprang away, mixed a drink like Merlin, and was back practically before Prin could think of how to prolong the conversation.
    â€œWhere were we?” murmured Coley. “Oh, yes. Your Uncle Slater. Very fine man. Exquisite taste. Bourbon chiefly, and when he does seek contrast, it’s the