He was always so patient. It was almost the most maddening thing about him.

Then the meaning of what he had said finally penetrated, and she turned her head to stare at him.

He had retreated to the hassock, the one she particularly loathed, and was sitting with a grace a twenty-year-old might have envied, one knee bent, his long brown hands curled around it.

“Immortalized?” she repeated, articulating carefully.

“But, darling, I told you last week…” He stopped. That was one of the things he must never do, remind her that she kept forgetting things. He started all over again, as if she had never heard the subject mentioned; only the straight vertical line between his brows showed his perturbation.

“Our guest’s name is Michael Collins. He’s the young man Manhattan magazine has commissioned to do a series of profiles on me. I’m very flattered, you know; usually they select important people as subjects.”

“You’re important,” she said. It was not a compliment. It was simply a statement.

“Maybe I was, once. But you know I don’t give a damn about being what the idiot world calls important.”

Linda shrugged and turned back to the mirror. The top of her dressing table was covered with bottles and jars, with creams and lotions and cosmetics, all the expensive playthings of a woman of wealth and fashion. They were in perfect order, their shining caps free of the slightest speck of dust. Anna, her maid, straightened them every day.

She reached out at random and took a lipstick out of a jeweled holder that held a dozen of them. Applying it to her mouth, she said, “I suppose you want me to get dressed up.”

“What about that robe I got you last week? The one with the gold threads?”

“It’s too big.” She tipped her head, studying her mouth. “My lipstick’s on crooked.”

“As a mere male it’s not up to me to comment,” said Gordon drily. “But if you will insist on talking while you apply the stuff-”