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A kitten gets hunted down for being a tease.

And, if there were budget cuts in this department, too, she would most certainly have informed me of that, rather than waste more of her time with me. No, it was more of a 'confrontation' - a meeting crafted to gauge whether we'd get along 'famously,' or wind up butting heads over issues at every point and turn.

Somehow, I sensed that boldness would stand me in far better stead than deference, in the present situation.

"Why don't you come around that desk, and take a closer look at my face," I posed the challenge as a gentle invitation, smiling broadly. If she intended to adopt such a tack with me, I fully intended to turn it to my advantage, if such a thing was possible!

Curious, she rose and came around the desk, leaning down to inspect my face from a distance of less than six inches.

"I stand corrected, my dear," her face brightened into an apologetic smile as she straightened and backed away, extending her hand in a warm greeting. "That is one of the best applications of theatrical makeup for everyday use, that I've seen in a very long time!"

"Thank you, Professor Chandler," I nodded, smiling.

"Augusta, please, dear," she chuckled in reply. "And, when it's just the two of us, like this, it's simply 'Gus.'"

"Thanks for the privilege, Gus," I nodded again.

"Would you care for coffee?" she asked, waving a hand in the direction of another side-table, on which sat a huge electric percolator and a tray of cups, together with a bowl of sugar and - looking somewhat out of place - a large Thermos brand vacuum flask. "It's just freshly brewed, and there's cream in the Thermos bottle, if you want."

I rose and crossed to the table, quickly preparing a cup of coffee for myself, turning to find her waiting her turn at the percolator.

"I think we'll be more comfortable, for our chat, on the other side of the room," she invited, leading the way.

She made a side-trip to a pair of French doors, which she opened, leading onto a small veranda outside - apparently built on the rooftop of the larger lower floor of the building. The warm summery air filled the room with the scent of the blossoms on the mimosa tree that stood in front of the buildings entrance.

She took the couch, and I claimed one of the chairs across from her, and we settled into place for our chat.

"Feel free to smoke, if you do, Laurel," she invited, gesturing to the side table next to my chair, on which rested a large cut-crystal ashtray. "Or, perhaps you'd care to indulge, with me?"

She leaned toward the table and lifted the lid on an ornately carved wooden box, which I'd thought held trinkets or some such. Instead, the open lid displayed a row of cigars. She immediately selected one and then turned the box toward me in silent invitation.

"They're my one little vice, apart from having a glass of Glenlivet with my husband, in the evenings," she said, by way of explanation.

In a flash, I realized that this was part of her strategy - revised or not, given her new appraisal of me, based on my makeup work - and my response would help to set the overall tone of our working relationship. I opted to follow the old adage, "When in Rome, be a Roman candle," and leaned toward the humidor.

Fortunately, I'd had some prior experience with cigars. Jael Abramson, my most recent lover, had smoked them almost exclusively and - to be quite honest - I much preferred the aromatic scent and taste of cigar smoke to that of the smelly old briar pipe he affected on occasion. His favorite pipe tobacco was called Islas Canarias, which he said meant, "Canary Islands."

Jael was correct, in a way, because the Spanish name for what English-speaking people call 'The Canary Islands' actually is Las Islas Canarias,

but he'd grown up speaking English, Russian, German, and Hebrew, and didn't know a lick of Spanish, so it was I - who'd taken three years of Spanish, in high school - who'd had to inform him th

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