"Hey, Archy," she said, "how would you like to buy a girl a drink?"

"Love to," I said. "Do you have any particular girl in mind?"

"Yes," she said, laughing, "this girl. Daddy is using the car tonight so you'll have to come get me."

I hesitated. It was a rather dicey situation. After all, she was practically betrothed to the Smythe-Hersforth scion and he was a client of McNally Son. I decided to express my fears.

"What about Chauncey?" I asked her. "Mightn't he object?"

"He doesn't own me," she said coldly. "Besides he just dropped me off after dinner and is on his way home to mommy."

"Be there in a half-hour," I said. "Will casual rags be acceptable?"

"Pj's will be acceptable," she said.

What a sterling woman!

I pulled on a silvery Ultrasuede sport jacket over a pinkish Izod and flannel bags, thrust my bare feet into black penny mocs, and paused long enough to swab the phiz with Obsession. Then I dashed.

I pulled up outside the Johnsons' condo and Theo exited immediately, pausing just long enough to double-lock her door. Then she came bouncing down to the LeSabre.

"Archy," she said, "how many cars do you own?"

"Just one. But the Miata's in the garage for an enema. Theo, you look smashing!"

It was the truth. She was dressed to the tens in honey-colored silk jacket and pantaloons. Her only jewelry was a choker of braided gold, and if the Chinless Wonder had donated that he had more taste than I had given him credit for.

"Thank you, dear," she said and leaned forward to kiss my cheek. "Yummy," she said. "Obsession?"

"Correct, supernose," I said. "You know everything, and it's scary. We're going to the Pelican Club. Nothing fancy, but the drinks are huge and if you want to sing 'Mother Machree' no one will call the cops."

"Great," she said. "My kind of joint."

That phrase she used-"My kind of joint"-jangled the old neurons. It sounded like something Pinky Schatz might say. But from the soon-to-be fiancee of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth?

I mean we all make critical judgments, usually immediate, of people we meet, based on their appearance, speech, behavior. We instantly decide: He's a nudnick. She's a cipher. And so forth. Sometimes these initial impressions are modified or even totally revised after closer acquaintance, but it's amazing how often first reactions prove to be accurate.

I had thought Theo Johnson to be a well-bred young lady, independent, emancipated, and rather freewheeling in the morality department. But her saying "My kind of joint" made me wonder if there was a coarser side to her nature I had not heretofore recognized. Does that make me a snob? I thought you had already determined that.

In any event, my confusion grew. I simply could not categorize this woman; she was truly Madam X. Her taste in clothes and makeup, her table manners and social graces seemed faultless. And, of course, her physical beauty was nonpareil. I think perhaps what I found most inexplicable was her tattoo. It was like finding a hickey on the neck of the Mona Lisa.

"Where did you and Chauncey dine?" I asked as we sped westward.

"Cafe L'Europe."

"Excellent. I hope you had the veal."

"I did," she said. "Archy, I think you and I enjoy the same things. Don't you agree?"

"Oh yes!" I said. "Yes, yes, yes!" And she laughed.

Jolly Pandemonium was the leitmotiv of the Pelican Club that night. It was at its noisiest and smokiest. Dart players were darting, table-hoppers were hopping, and everyone was guzzling happily and laughing up a typhoon.

"Uh-huh," Theo said, glancing around, "I belong here. Is Chauncey a member?"

" 'Fraid not."

"Didn't think so," she said with a wry-crisp smile. "Not his scene. He's such a fuddy-duddy. I mean he still reads newspapers. Can you believe it?"

I made no comment but led her into the dining area. Lights were dimmed, dinner was no longer being served, but there were a few couples lingering, holding hands across tables and looking into each other's eyes for promise. I claimed my favorite corner spot, and we were no sooner seated than Priscilla came sauntering over.

"You know the reputation of this man?" she asked Theo.

Madam X actually giggled. "I can imagine," she said.

"No, you can't," Pris said. "Whenever there's a full moon he gets long hair on the backs of his hands."

"Love it," Theo said, tilted her head back and bayed a long "Wooooo!" at the ceiling.

"Just what I need," Priscilla said. "A couple of loonies."

"Enough of your sass," I said. "We may be loonies but we're thirsty loonies. Theo?"

"Wine," she said promptly.

"Pinot Grigio?"

"Just right."

"A bottle, please," I said to Pris. "And try not to crumble the cork."

"Keep it up, buster," she said, "and I'll crumble your cork."

She strolled into the bar area, and Theo laughed. "You've known her a long time, Archy?"

"Years. Her family runs the place. Brother Leroy is our chef. Daddy Simon is bartender-manager. And her mom Jasmine is our housekeeper and den-mother. The Pettibones made the Pelican Club a winner. We were going down the drain before they took over."

"I hope you'll ask me here again."

I didn't quite know how to reply to that, but I was saved by Priscilla serving our wine. Chilled just right and with a slight flowery aroma.

Theo sipped. "Loverly," she said. "Thank you for coming to my rescue. I was in the doldrums."

"I've visited the doldrums," I said. "Miserable place. It's near the pits, isn't it?"

"Too near," she said, not smiling.

We drank our wine slowly, comfortable with each other. What a selfish delight it was to be in the company of such a beautiful woman. I tried not to stare at her but it was difficult to resist. "Feasting your eyes" is the cliche, and mine were famished.

"I know so little about you," I mentioned casually, trying not to sound like a Nosy Parker. "Tell me."

"Not a lot to tell," she said just as casually. "Besides, I hate to look back, don't you? The past is such a drag. The future is much more exciting."

She had neatly finessed me, and I feared that if I asked specific questions she'd think me a goof.

"All right," I said, "let's talk about your future. Have you decided to become Chauncey's one-and-only?"

She gave me a mocking half-smile. "Let's talk about it later," she said. "Right now I'm with you."

"For which I give thanks to Aphrodite," I said. "A.k.a. Venus. The goddess of love and beauty."

"It's skin-deep," she said.

"Beauty?" I asked. "Or love?"

"Both."

That seemed to me a rather harsh judgment, but I had no desire to argue.

"And what about your lady?" she asked me.

"We have an open relationship. Tonight she's at a dinner-dance with another chap."

"And you're jealous?"

"Of course not."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" she said with a boomy laugh. "Tell me, Archy, what do you do when you're not real-estating."

"Eat, drink, smoke, swim in the ocean, play tennis, golf, and poker, watch polo, read trash, listen to pop singers, occasionally attend the theatre, opera, ballet, charity bashes, and private shindigs, buy clothes and trinkets, write to old friends, party with new friends, and sleep. I think that about covers it."

"Not quite," she said. "You didn't mention sex."

"I didn't want to offend your sensibilities."

"What makes you think I have any?" And before I could come up with a saucy rejoinder, she said, "You know what I'd like to do after we finish this bottle of wine?"

"Have another?"

"No," she said, "take a walk on the beach. Could we do that?"

"Of course," I said. "Sorry I can't provide a full moon to prove my hands don't grow hair. There's just a sliver."

"It'll be enough. Can I take off my sandals, roll up my pants, and wade in the surf?"