"Miss Broadmoor," he said in greeting. As far as conversation partners went she was better than most to have been on the receiving end of that remark, so he could say he was happy to see her. She didn't seem inclined to hurry off and report his rudeness to her friends or the hostess. "When you say it like that you make my colleagues and I sound like liars," he said with a wry twist of his mouth. "Which is unfair. We seldom lie. We just seldom tell the whole truth."

Of course she hadn't actually accused him of dishonesty; she'd said his frankness was disconcerting. And he had to admit she had a point. If he was in the habit of only saying a quarter of the truth when it came to his work, that same principle could have been applied here. He might have answered her question with it's not much my taste or it's very eye-catching or something of the sort, and instead he had come out with the baldest version of his real feelings. This was out of character for him. Another symptom of the vague something wrong he'd been feeling for hours.

No sooner had he thought this than he heard himself telling her about it, though still with the teasing tone of party banter. "But I think you've caught me in an odd state of mind tonight. I hope you're not inclined to take advantage by peppering me with questions that would get me in trouble."

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