"Oh, excuse me," he said. "Would you like to borrow my jacket?" I shook my head, acutely aware, suddenly, that Mr. Grantham is not a doddering old grandfather but a young and handsome man. And all he thought about my bare shoulder was that it ought to be covered. "You just run along," Mrs. Baden said. "We'll let Billy strangle the pneumatic dog and everything will be just fine. Oh, and dear--I don't know whether you've noticed it--you don't have on a dress." I went home and sat in front of the mirror feeling miserable in several different directions. If Regina Raymond Crowley appeared in public dressed only in a boudoir slip, people would think all sorts of wicked things. When I appeared in public in a boudoir slip, everybody thought I was just a little absentminded. This, I thought, is a hell of a thing to worry about. And then I thought, Oh, phooey. If even I think I'm respectable, what can I expect other people to think? I took down the note on the mirror about Regina. No wonder I didn't like her! I turned the paper over and wrote "Phooey to me!" with my eyebrow pencil. I was still regarding the note and trying to argue myself into a better mood when Clay came tramping down from work at three o'clock. "Why are you sitting around in a boudoir slip?" he asked. "You're a double-dyed louse and a great, big alligator head," I told him. "Don't mention it," he said. "Where's Billy?" "Taking his nap. Tell me the truth, Clay. The absolute truth." Clay looked at me suspiciously. "I'd planned on a little golf this afternoon." "This won't take a minute. I don't ask you things like this all the time, now do I?" "I still don't know what you're talking about." I took a deep breath. "Clay, is there anything about me, anything at all, that is not respectable?" "There is _not_," he said. "Well--I guess that's all there is to it," I sighed. I pulled off my boudoir slip and got a neat paper one out of the slot. "Anyway," I said bravely, "boudoir slips have to be laundered." Clay looked at me curiously for a moment and then said, "This looks like a good afternoon to go play golf." "Do you think there's anything not respectable about Regina Crowley?" "There is _everything_ not respectable about Regina Crowley," Clay said vehemently. "You see?" "Frankly, no." "Well, do you think her husband uses that tone of voice when he says, 'There is _everything_ respectable about Verne Barrat?'" "I don't know why he should say that at all." "She might ask him." "Darling, you're mad as a hatter," Clay said, kissing me good-by. "Do you really think so?" "Of course not," Clay roared as he tramped up the steps to the heli. * * * * * About nine o'clock the next morning I heard a heli landing on the roof and I thought, Now who? There was much tooting, and when I went up, Regina practically threw Hi-nin at me. "I told you so," she snapped at me. Her face was burning red and she wasn't bothering to tilt her nose.