That was more like it: a note with the trip-hammer, cryptic mystery of a telegram. The other note made it seem as if Tom took her for granted, would fortify any such notions he had. That might have been all right with Mary-Jean, but Jeanne-Marie wouldn't stand for such a thing. Satisfied, Jeanne-Marie went downstairs. And the front door opened. It was Tommy, she thought with sudden alarm, seven-year-old Tommy back from school and his cub scout pack meeting. She watched him come in. Mechanically, because there was nothing else to do, she continued down the stairs. "H'lo," Tommy said, looking at her. "My mother upstairs?" "Why, no, no, she isn't," Jeanne-Marie said. "She went away for the day. She left a note for your father." "Who're you?" "Oh, just a friend. Be--be a good boy until your father gets home, Tommy. Why don't you play with your trains?" "Who told you I have trains?" "Oh, your mother told me." She was at the front door now. "Your mother did. Well, g'bye." "Bye," Tommy said. A taxi was waiting at the curb. She had known--almost--that it would be. For Jeanne-Marie did not have to seek things out. They sought her--grateful for the privilege. The cabbie stared at her with frank admiration and she didn't mind. She didn't mind at all. You couldn't consider it fresh. It was more like--more like homage. It was her due. The cabbie's expected question: "where to, lady?" was replaced by a polite, "Madam?" On impulse, Jeanne-Marie named the city's most fashionable cocktail and supper club, the Black Flamingo. Then she settled back in the cushions, relaxing. Traffic was heavy and the cabbie stole several admiring glances in the rear-view mirror, but still they made incredible time, as if all the other drivers knew that Jeanne-Marie had twenty-four hours of glorious adventure ahead of her and wanted to embark on it at once. All the traffic made way for Jeanne-Marie. Naturally it did. * * * * * Homage was paid Jeanne-Marie at the _Black Flamingo_ too. There she was ushered across the crowded floor and given a ringside table near the cocktail hour pianist. The sweet, seductive music he played, the dimness within the _Black Flamingo_, the almost abstract pattern of flamingos in motion on the walls, the cigarette haze, the constant humming buzz of cocktail chatter, the first cocktail--a gibson--Jeanne-Marie ordered, all combined for an effect of drowsiness, of time suspension, which Jeanne-Marie had never experienced before.