What is that on your shoulder?”
“It’s a mole. I should have had it removed.”
“Why? I think it is rather wonderful.”
“It is a blemish.”
‘We all have those.”
“It is too obvious.”
“Then, why haven’t you done something about it? You’ll be in and out in a day.”
“I can’t. It’s part of something bigger.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sick.”
Otterley smiled.
“Please don’t ask me about it now.”
“That, my dear,” he said with his usual self-assurance, “is an invitation, pure and simple.”
“Please, Miles. Later?”
When later came, Miles still appeared to be struggling.
“I still don’t understand.”
“You have eyes,” she said. “You have fingers.”
“Yes, but which keys?”
“Well, work it out. I’m not a piano.”
“I am trying.”
“Getting colder.”
“Do I have to put the heating on?”
“Twit,” she said; then as she sank back. “Now you’re getting warmer.”
“Really?”
“Ye-es.”
Later still:
“So what have your moles got to do with anything? Are you sick?”
Otterley sighed.
“Do you still not get it?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Then maybe I shall have to remove myself from you instead.”
“That would be sad.”
“It is, but you are either blind or stupid.”
“That,” he said, “has always been the male prerogative.”
“Count,” she said. “How many fingers do you have?”
“And?”
“How many moles do I have?”
“One…two…three…four…five….”
“Now you’ve got it!”
*
“How perfectly marvellous!” said George. “A lady with strategically placed moles.”
“You make me laugh,” said Giorgio. “If everybody worried about moles, they’d never get into bed.”
“Now you’re making me laugh. Don’t you ever stop to admire?”
“Always. All women are beautiful in their own way.”