The Dead of Jericho

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Not remarkably beautiful, he thought. Not, that is to say, if one could ever measure the beauty of a woman on some objective scale: sub specie aeternae pulchritudinis, as it were. Yet several times already, in the hour or so that followed the brisk, perfunctory 'hallos' of their introduction, their eyes had met across the room-and held. And it was after his third glass of slightly superior red plonk that he managed to break away from the small circle of semi-acquaintances with whom he'd so far been standing.

Easy.

Mrs. Murdoch, a large, forcefully optimistic woman in her late forties, was now pleasantly but firmly directing her guests towards the food set out on tables at the far end of the large lounge, and the man took his opportunity as she passed by.

'Lovely party!'

'Glad you could come. You must mix round a bit, though. Have you met-?'

'I'll mix. I promise I will-have no fears-'

'I've told lots of people about you.'

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