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enjoy myself,' Alix said coolly.
    'Until I showed up,' he supplied. ,
    She shrugged. 'You said it—I didn't.'
    'You didn't have to. Has no one ever told you that your face is the mirror to your thoughts?' To Alix's annoyance, he drew out the chair opposite and sat down.
    Stiffening, she said, 'I don't remember inviting you to join me.'
    'There's nothing the matter with your memory—you didn't,' he returned. To the waiter who had just brought Alix's Cinzano, he said, 'A whisky and water, please. And we'll both have lasagne.'
    Alix's fingers curled like claws round her glass. In a voice almost molten with rage, she said, 'I did not intend to order lasagne.'
    'Then you should. It's particularly good here. Or do you always play safe with steak or scampi wherever you happen to dine?'
    'Of course not,' she began, then compressed her lips angrily. She was not going to be drawn into a discussion of her eating habits. 'What I'm trying to say is that I'm perfectly capable of making my own choice from the menu, and I'd prefer to eat alone.'
    'Is it a preference you often indulge?'
    She had expected him to leave, but he showed no signs of moving. And now the waiter was bringing his drink, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and a carafe of house wine. She could have screamed.
    'Well, why don't you?' he said.
    'Why don't I what?'
    'Swear at me—throw your drink in my face—storm out. Whatever hostile fantasy you're harbouring. I told you that you were transparent. Why don't you follow the family tradition and go into films? You'd probably make your fortune.'
    'Because I'm quite content as I am, thanks.' Alix made her face and voice impassive. Transparent, she thought, simmering inwardly.
    'That's a dull thing to be at your age. .And I don't believe you.' He lifted his glass. 'Here's to the other Alix Coulter, and may she soon stand up.'
    'There is no other.' Alix did not respond to the toast, or drink from her own glass. She was afraid she might choke.
    'Oh?' He gave her a long speculative look which covered the pinned-back hair, and the muted neutral colours of dress, trench coat and bag. 'Then the girl I glimpsed on the stairs today was someone else—or a mirage, was she?'
    Alix had forgotten the glimpse he had caught of her. She felt the colour rise in her face, and knew angrily that he had noticed it too and was faintly amused by it.
    She said between her teeth, 'Mr Brant, I came here for a quiet meal, not to be interviewed. I'm not interested in being copy for your next book any more than
my
—than Bianca is.'
    He said softly, 'I've no intention of writing a book about you, darling. Your cumulative experience of life could undoubtedly be covered in a short article, probably for a parish magazine. My questions are prompted by a normal male curiosity about why an attractive young woman insists on dragging about the place like a facsimile of Little Orphan Annie. I assume it is deliberate.'
    'I'm a working girl, Mr Brant, not some kind of starlet. Does that satisfy your curiosity?'
    'It doesn't satisfy anything about me.' His eyes never left her face. 'You're a walking intrigue, Miss Coulter. I shall look forward to solving your particular mystery over the next few weeks. What was that wrongly buttoned dress—a Freudian slip?'
    'I had to change in a hurry.' Alix heard a sudden breathless note creep into her voice. He was right about there being nothing the matter with her memory—she could remember the details of that little incident only too well.
    'So did Cinderella when the clock struck midnight. Do you have some private timing device to tell you, when the ball is over?'
    'I really don't know what all the fuss is about,' Alix said with a hint of desperation. 'Just because I prefer to dress in a—in a businesslike way during working hours…'
    'Another of these famous preferences of yours—you prefer to dress badly—you prefer to eat alone. Or are either of those choices, in fact, yours?'
    'What do you mean?' Alix was stung. 'I