The waiter interrupted before she could answer, delivering two glasses to the table. Farland thanked him, and began to work on the champagne bottle and, as he did so, pointed it seemingly by accident in the waiter's direction, who flinched aside as if fearing for his life. "Just kidding," Farland laughed, and slapped him on the arm. The waiter chuckled with disdain, and left. Farland shook his head, amused with himself, and then popped open the bottle without further ado—or injury. "I wanted to apologize," he said to Aricia, as he poured the two glasses, "for prevailing on you in this way. It occurs to me that I may have put you in some danger the other afternoon and, well, that makes me most unhappy."

"My thanks, also, for the painting," he added, handing her one of the glasses of champagne, a sparkling, flavescent color. "I have it on the wall in my quarters, on my ship; an unassuming ship, I'm afraid, in need of decorum which, thankfully, you've delivered. Cheers," he held his glass in the air, "to happenstance?"

The trouble with this philosophy is that Farland seemed to define the verb "to live" in terms of its opposite—that is, "to not die." This is, perhaps, why he frequently placed himself in such ludicrous peril. Sterling Farland's history was one of duels and races, thefts and conquests. He claims to have fathered the Solo children. He discovered at least one hospitable planet and a hyperspace route that leads to it (he named the planet "Fallopia," and thus, the name of the hyperspace route was a predictable one). He cannot recall an occasion on which he has been wrong. He once met Lando Calrissian or, rather, Lando Calrissian met him. There was even a character in a popular series of romance novels based, loosely, on him.

The circumstances that had occasioned his visit to Aricia's shop had been no less adventuresome. "That ring," he said, leaning upon his elbow on the table, "has an interesting story to it. The initials are my Uncle's; Phinneas is his name. He gambles compulsively and, I'm afraid, not very well. He lost his ring to a Rodian in a card game, but the poor Rodian was apparently captured by Trandoshan slavers and never seen again. Bad bit of luck, that. The Trandoshans had his ring though, you see, and my Aunt Estella asked me to retrieve it. I hold her in high regard and, moreover, I'm dependent upon her for my income so, naturally, I was happy to oblige."

He shrugged and poured himself another glass of champagne. "I do thank you," he went on, "for helping me; those Trandoshans are an unpleasant sort and since they've banned blasters on Coruscant no one seems to be willing to permit me one. Dueling evidently doesn't look good on my record." He sipped his champagne in a more classé fashion this time, demonstrating that he was, occasionally, capable of good manners. He had been taught all of the proper manners, of course, as a Tapani nobleman, but he found them tedious.

"I suppose I should be thankful to them also, though," he mused, "If they hadn't chased me into your shop, I'd not have such a fine painting adorning my ship. And of course, I'd not have met you."

The third way was neither credulous nor jaded. It too saw through the facade, but saw also a small, vulnerable person who felt the need to convince people of the facade in the first place and, most of all, to convince himself of it. Everyone's afraid of something. With Farland, it wasn't blasters, blades, heights, or any of the dangers he was famous for defying. It was, perhaps, a fear of being alone—or rather, of being left alone—that caused him to construct an elaborate identity of Sterling Farland as a fatuous womanizer. For the most part, he stayed true to this persona, only occasionally showing some momentary semblance of a redeeming intellect, charm, or sensitivity.

He'd had many women, of course. Most of them shallow, credulous, unsatisfying. There was probably a part of him that wanted something more in life, a more worthwhile relationship, but if there was he refused to see it and compensated with his cavalier antics and, of course, with sex. Perhaps if he died in some duel, race, or stunt of his, he'd never have to confront these larger questions. He'd leave a thousand women crying for a man, a persona, who never really existed.

But that wasn't Plan A.

"Do you... have the ring?" Sterling asked Aricia, after a silence had fallen over them. He hated silence; he could hear himself think. "Uncle Phinneas will certainly be pleased to see it again," he said, idly.