'Conrad, you simply cannot start things up like this and then drop them. It's the second time in five minutes.'
'I don't want to be a medical bore,' he said.
'You're not being a bore. These things are fascinating. Come on! Tell! Don't be mean.'
It was pleasant to be sitting there feeling moderately high on two big martinis, and making easy talk with this graceful man, this quiet, comfortable, graceful person. He was not being coy. Far from it. He was simply being his normal scrupulous self.
'Is it something shocking?' she asked.
'No. You couldn't call it that.'
'Then go ahead.'
He picked up the packet of cigarettes still lying in front of her, and studied the label. 'The point is this,' he said. 'If you inhale menthol, you absorb it into the bloodstream. And that isn't good, Anna. It does things to you. It has certain very definite effects upon the central nervous system. Doctors still prescribe it occasionally.'
'I know that,' she said. 'Nose
-drops and inhalations.'
'That's one of its minor uses. Do you know the other?'
'You rub it on the chest when you have a cold.'
'You can if you like, but it wouldn't help.'
'You put it in ointment and it heals cracked lips.'
'That's camphor.'
'So it is.'
He waited for her to have another guess.
'Go ahead and tell me,' she said.
'It may surprise you a bit.'
'I'm ready to be surprised.'
'Menthol,' Conrad said, 'is a well-known anti-aphrodisiac.'
'A what?'
'It suppresses sexual desire.'
'Conrad, you're making these things up.'
'I swear to you I'm not.'
'Who uses it?'
'Very few people nowadays. It has too strong a flavour. Saltpetre is much better.'
'Ah yes. I know about saltpetre.'
'What do you know about saltpetre?'
'They give it to prisoners,' Anna said. 'They sprinkle it on their cornflakes every morning to keep them quiet.'