I nursed the glass in both hands, warming it as if it contained precious old brandy, while I pretended to look over the papers on the table. Than I raised it deliverately to my lips. The girl was examining one of my photostats with absorbed interest. I started to drink. It was the lack of ice, and the stalling I'd done, that saved me. Just as the stuff touched my lips, I caught the faintest hint of a scent rising from the warmed-up liquor that I probably would not have detected if the drink had been cold; a flowery scent that never came from good Scotch, or bad Scotch either.

1965.