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 at Imperia's right. On her left he was not surprised to discover Count Jaime Supari. On his own right was seated an amazing creature with a very white face, mysterious green eyes, and coils of pink hair arranged in a coronet about her head. He recalled that she had been introduced as Mrs. Norvell. Could this be Ariane Norvell, the author of Love Is Too Much?

He learned that it was.

Mrs. Norvell without hesitation plunged at once into a monologue, speaking in a calm, monotonous voice, her lips scarcely moving, except occasionally to permit a suspicion of a smile to flicker across them: They are drinking too much. They are smoking too much. Slaves! Slaves! I shall never become a slave. I hate slaves. One is obliged to decide whether to live for the moment or to become immortal. I have chosen to become immortal. I shall leave behind me a message to make ten million people better, ten million people happier. Recently I reread Love Is Too Much. A masterpiece, Mr. Deacon, a beautiful, immortal masterpiece!

I do not smoke, Mr. Deacon. I do not drink. Externally I am like ice. To protect myself I have created this perpetually frozen surface which no one can break through. That is why I always wear ermine