Fraser studied her face. “Like it?” he asked.
“Like it? Oh, yes!”
He smiled, and Catherine wondered if she had sounded too enthusiastic, like a girl
who was attracted by wealth, like one of those aggressive females who were always
chasing him. “It’s…it’s pleasant,” she added lamely.
Fraser was looking at her mockingly, and Catherine had the terrible feeling that he
could read her thoughts. “Come into the study.”
Catherine followed him into a large book-lined room done in dark paneling. It had an
aura of another age, the graciousness of an easier, friendlier way of life.
Fraser was studying her. “Well?” he asked gravely.
Catherine was not going to be caught again. “It’s smaller than the Library of
Congress,” she said, defensively.
He laughed aloud. “You’re right.”
Frank came into the room carrying a silver ice bucket. He set it on top of the bar in
the corner. “What time would you like dinner, Mr. Fraser?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“I’ll tell the cook.” Frank left the room.
“What may I fix you to drink?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
He looked over at her. “Don’t you drink, Catherine?”
“Not when I’m working,” she said. “I get my p’s and o’s mixed up.”
“You mean p’s and q’s, don’t you?”
“P’s and o’s. They’re next to each other on the typewriter.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You’re not supposed to. That’s why you pay me a king’s ransom every week.”
“What do I pay you?” Fraser asked.
“Thirty dollars and dinner in the most beautiful house in Washington.”
“You’re sure you won’t change your mind about that drink?”
“No, thank you,” Catherine said.
Fraser mixed a martini for himself, and Catherine wandered around the room looking
at the books. There were all the traditional classic titles and, in addition, a whole section of
books in Italian and another section in Arabic.
Fraser walked over to her side. “You don’t really speak Italian and Arabic, do you?”
Catherine asked.