“I’ve heard of it,” she said. It was a small hotel on a bluff above the river about fifteen miles farther on and supposed to be very expensive.

“It’s not a bad little joint,” Boylan said. “You can get a decent bottle of wine.”

There was no more conversation because he drove very fast and the wind roared across the open car, making her squint against the pressure on her eyes and swirling her hair. The wartime speed limit was supposed to be only thirty-five miles an hour, to conserve gasoline, but of course a man like Mr. Boylan didn’t have to worry about things like gasoline.

From time to time, Boylan looked over at her and smiled a little. The smile was ironical, she felt, and had to do with the fact that she was sure he knew she had been lying about her reasons for being alone so far from town, waiting senselessly for a bus that wouldn’t arrive for another hour. He leaned over and opened the glove case and brought out a pair of dark Air Force glasses and handed it to her. “For your pretty blue eyes,” he shouted, over the wind. She put the glasses on and felt very dashing, like an actress in the movies.

The Farmer’s Inn had been a relay house in the post-colonial days when travel between New York and upstate had been by stagecoach. It was painted red with white trim and there was a large wagon wheel propped up on the lawn. It proclaimed the owner’s belief that Americans liked to dine in their past. It could have been a hundred miles or a hundred years away from Port Philip.

Gretchen combed her hair into some sort of order, using the rear-view mirror. She was uncomfortable and conscious of Boylan watching her. “One of the nicest things a man can see in this life,” he said, “is a pretty girl with her arms up, combing her hair. I suppose that’s why so many painters have painted it.”

She was not used to talk like that from any of the boys who had gone through high school with her or who hung around her desk at the office and she didn’t know whether she liked it or not. It seemed to invade her privacy, talk like that. She hoped she wasn’t going to blush any more that afternoon. She started to put on some lipstick, but he reached out and stopped her. “Don’t do that,” he said authoritatively. “You’ve got enough on. More than enough. Come.” He leaped out of the car, with surprising agility, she thought, for a man that age, and came around and opened the door for her.

Manners, she noted automatically. She followed him from the parking lot, where there were five or six other cars ranged under the trees, toward the entrance to the hotel. His brown shoes, well they weren’t really shoes (jodhpur boots, she was later to discover they were called), were highly shined, as usual. He was wearing a hounds-tooth tweed jacket, and gray flannel slacks, and a scarf at the throat of his soft wool shirt, instead of a tie. He’s not real, she thought, he’s out of a magazine. What am I doing with him?

Beside him, she felt dowdy and clumsy in the short-sleeved navy-blue dress that she had taken so much care to choose that morning. She was sure he was already sorry he had stopped for her. But he held the door open for her and touched her elbow helpfully as she passed in front of him into the bar.

There were two other couples in the bar, which was decorated like an eighteenth-century tap room, all dark oak and pewter mugs and plates. The two women were youngish and wore suede skirts with tight, flat jerseys and spoke in piercing, confident voices. Looking at them, Gretchen was conscious of the gaudiness of her own bosom and hunched over to minimize it. The couples were seated at a low table at the other end of the room and Boylan guided Gretchen to the bar and helped her sit on one of the heavy, high, wooden stools. “This end,” he said in a low voice. “Get away from those ladies. They make a music I can do without.”

A Negro in a starched white jacket came to take their order. “Afternoon, Mr. Boylan,” the Negro said soberly. “What is your pleasure, sir?”

“Ah, Bernard,” Boylan said, “you ask the question that has stumped philosophers since the beginning of time.”

Phoney, Gretchen thought. She was a little shocked that she could think it about a man like Mr. Boylan.

The Negro smiled dutifully. He was as neat and spotless as if he were ready to conduct an operation. Gretchen looked at him sideways. I know two friends of yours not far from here, she thought, who aren’t giving anybody any pleasure this afternoon.

“My dear,” Boylan turned to her, “what do you drink?”

“Anything. Whatever you say.” The traps were multiplying. How did she know what she drank? She never drank anything stronger than Coke. She dreaded the arrival of the menu. Almost certainly in French. She had taken Spanish and Latin in school. Latin!

“By the way,” Boylan said, “you are over eighteen.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. She blushed. What a silly time to blush. Luckily it was dark in the bar.

“I wouldn’t want to be dragged into court for leading minors into corruption,” he said, smiling. He had nice, well-cared-for dentist’s teeth. It was hard to understand why a man who looked like that, with teeth like that and such elegant clothes, and all that money, would ever have to have lunch alone.

“Bernard, let’s try something sweet. For the young lady. A nice Daiquiri, in your inimitable manner.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bernard said.

Inimitable, she thought. Who uses words like that? Her sense of being the wrong age, wrongly dressed, wrongly made-up, made her hostile.

Gretchen watched Bernard squeeze the limes and toss in the ice and shake the drink, with expert, manicured black-and-pink hands. Adam and Eve in the Garden. If Mr. Boylan had had an inkling … There wouldn’t be any of that condescending talk about corruption.

The frothy drink was delicious and she drank it like lemonade. Boylan watched her, one eye raised, a little theatrically, as the drink disappeared.

“Once again, please, Bernard,” he said.

The two couples went into the dining room and they had the bar to themselves, as Bernard prepared the second round. She felt more at ease now. The afternoon was opening up. She didn’t know why those were the words that occurred to her, but that’s the way it seemed—opening up. She was going to sit at many dark bars and many kindly older men in peculiar clothes were going to buy her delicious drinks.

Bernard put the drink in front of her.

“May I make a suggestion, pet?” Boylan said. “I’d drink this one more slowly, if I were you. There is rum in them, after all.”

“Of course,” she said, with dignity. “I guess I was thirsty, standing out there in the hot sun.”

“Of course, pet,” he said.

Pet. Nobody had ever called her anything like that. She liked the word, especially the way he said it, in that cool, unpushy voice. She took little ladylike sips of the cold drink. It was as good as the first one. Maybe even better. She was beginning to feel that she wasn’t going to blush anymore that afternoon.

Boylan called for the menu. They would order in the bar while they were finishing their drinks. The headwaiter came in with two large, stiff cards, and said, bowing a little, “Glad to see you again, Mr. Boylan.”

Everybody was glad to see Mr. Boylan, in his shiny shoes.

“Should I order?” Boylan asked her.

Gretchen knew, from the movies, that gentlemen often ordered for ladies in restaurants, but it was one thing to see it on the screen and another thing to have it happen right in front of you. “Please do,” she said. Right out of the book, she thought triumphantly. My, the drink was good.

There was a brief but serious discussion about the menu and the wine between Mr. Boylan and the headwaiter. The headwaiter disappeared, promising to call them when their table was ready. Mr. Boylan took out a gold cigarette case and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.