“But you are supposed to mingle with my guests as part of your job, Mister-I am afraid I’ve forgotten your name-”

“Poindexter. Griffith.”

“Mister Griffith, is it? Won’t you have some champagne “

“Griffith. Poindexter’s the last name. I guess so-about the bubbly stuff. Crazy moniker, no? I mean because it could go either way.”

Constance snorted silently.

A pair of waitresses passed their way. One offered up servings of oserta caviar, straight. The other wench wielded her supply of champagne with nimble fingers.

“To the success of your fund-raising effort,”

Griffith said with glass near to his chin.

He tipped the fizzjuice toward her.

“I am sure this must all seem so lewd to you,”

Constance said. “But Charity House owes the fame of its name to this tradition.”

“A fine one, I am certain. But let’s forget about what’s going on behind the curtains. Let’s talk about these.”

Griffith reached out and up smoothly. Flipped Constance’s pearls between his fingers.

Lingered his loosely coiled digits between her boobs. Fondled the strand with his hand.

“Same color as the caviar,” Griffith observed.

“These black pearls you got here.”

“Try some.”

Griffith drew a line of heads across his tongue.

“Like this?”

Reining Griffith with her pearly bridle, Constance pulled his face to hers.

Griffith drew hack. “I can’t kiss someone with fish eggs on their breath.”

“Wipe it out for me. With your tongue.”

“Suppose I could.”

Griffith knocked back a swig of champagne.

“Beaten egg whites,” he said.

Constance sucked down some.

“You’re right. I never noticed that. What else do you taste?”

“In Dom Perignon,” he said after swallowing another yapful of liquid, “I can taste a trace of sour milk. And a bit of brine.”

“You are a connoisseur of wines?”