"Mimi," she prompted. "I forgot what I was going to say," he admitted. "Cheers." "Don't gulp," she said. "Here, I'll pour you another one, but sip it, now promise." "God, it does taste awful, doesn't it?" he said, grimacing. "I don't think I ever _tasted_ one before. Do you think limes might help?" "We have some in the kitchen, but it doesn't sound like a good idea to me. Why don't we just throw the mess away and whip up something else? I just wanted you to think I was chic this season to serve mar_tin_is." "What season? Football?" "Hunting," she said, and the eyes and lips smiled together again. "Mimi," Victor said a bit pompously, standing up and leaning over her, "I hope you are not flirting with me. You are, remember, a married woman and are, in fact, married to a patient of mine." "First of all," she said, "you're being pompous. Second of all, he's not your patient, he says I'm your patient. Third of all, I'm not married to him. And fourth, of all ... is it fourth or fifth ... well anyway, fourth or fifth of all, let's try the limes. We've nothing to lose, it couldn't taste worse." * * * * * "First of all," he said, following her to the kitchen, "I am never pompous. Second of all, he _is_ my patient because he came to my office obviously seeking psychiatric help but too sick to ask for it. I feel it only my duty to help him and besides, his case is fascinating." "And his wife isn't, I suppose," she said over her shoulder. "Third of all," he said, "and I ignore the interruption, what the hell do you mean you're not married to him? And fourth of all, it is fourth, not fifth, I think the limes will help immeasurably." "Well, I think it all comes back to your original question. You know, about telling you all about him, and how it started, and all that. You see, I can't, because I don't remember. Here, you cut the limes while I look for the squeezer." * * * * *