shut off his puzzled scrutiny by applying itself to his forehead.
When the cloth withdrew, she put an arm gently under his neck and shoulders and raised him. She was on one knee, on the floor beside him, and she propped him with the other knee while she took a steaming glass from somewhere behind her, and held it to his lips. He drank with his eyes on her hand. The smooth plump delicacy of her fingers interested him. He put his own muddy paw up to regulate the flow of the choking liquor, and felt the softness of her flesh. He looked up at her. She smiled at him, without moving to free her hand. “Better?” she asked.
He regarded her smile with an impersonal interest. It was a very pleasant, slow smile. He looked into her eyes, and was fascinated. She asked: “What is your name?”
He answered, after a moment, as if he were in doubt: “Barney. Barney . . . Cook.”
“Where do you live?”
“N’ York.”
