"That's good," Fleetwood said, "that you didn't want to be, I mean. Otherwise, you might have got up with a chip on your shoulder and you wouldn't go out to dinner with me tonight." "Huh?" Kitty said. "Are you asking me?" "That's what I came here for," Fleetwood nodded. "Will you go?" "Oh, I'll go, all right," Kitty said. "I'll be ready from seven thirty on, any time you're ready. Gosh!" Her smile faded a bit. "You look awfully tired, though...." "I'll have to get some rest," Fleetwood agreed. "I worked last night." "All night, you mean?" Kitty asked. "But that reminds me, what do you do anyway? I should have asked you yesterday, I guess." Fleetwood hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, he took the plunge. "I write," he told her. "Stories." "No kidding? What kind?" "Oh, mysteries," Fleetwood said with extreme offhandedness. "About a private detective, a little hammered-down looking guy with big glasses who always gets into a lot of trouble. He gets kicked around and stepped on and shot up until the last chapter when he catches the murderer and they haul him off to the hospital. It's pretty rugged stuff." "Gee," Kitty said solemnly, "the poor little guy. I feel sorry for him." A small, private smile touched Fleetwood's lips. "Don't," he said. "After all, he's only a fictional character." Then, with apparent irrelevance, his glance moved away and took in the gleaming brightness of the morning, the store, the busy world outside. Finally he looked back at Kitty and grinned. "Gosh!" he sighed ecstatically. "This is really living!"