The room at the Plaza Hotel was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o'clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. The city outside hummed drowsily, the distant honk of a horn, the occasional laugh from below, all of it smothered by the heat. Inside, the air barely stirred. The curtains hung limp. Even the ice in their glasses had long since surrendered, melting into pale, diluted swirls.

“The thing to do is forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. After a moment he got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel and, with a sharp twist, he tore the cap off and poured himself another.

"You'll make it ten times worse by crabbing about it," he added, his voice tight with irritation, though whether at the heat or at the company, it was impossible to tell.