"My God!" exclaimed Grandma. "What am I gonna do?" Grandma, to my great regret and mortification, swears. She insists that she doesn't, and that she hasn't uttered a single word that would be inappropriate at a Ladies' Aid meeting, since two years ago when she made a New Year's resolution to stop swearing. Actually, that resolution proved to be only the mildest sort of damper on her powers of expression; but she maintains that she no longer swears. The only time she'll admit it is when she's caught in the act, and confronted with the echo of what she has said. And even at such times, she tries to persuade me that, with the exception of that one time ... The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Grandma's black eyes darted around with lightning speed. Whether she was looking for my dress, or for a means of escape, I didn't know. "Go ahead," I prodded. "I've explained to you how to do it. You know where the keys are, and what we charge for each cabin." Grandma gave a low moan and started for the office. I sat down again, still in my slip, and chuckled. I glanced at the book I had been reading, but I strained to hear what was going on in the office. I could hear only a low rumble of voices. Well, she could tell me all about it afterward. I tucked one leg under me on the kitchen chair, fingered the satiny material of my slip, and began reading my book again. I was absorbed in a faintly lavender passage in the book when suddenly I realized that I was not alone. There, in the doorway of the kitchen, stood a middle-aged couple, their eyes busily engaged in examining my slip and the broad expanses of skin above and below it. "There she is," Grandma, behind them, was saying weakly. "I'm new here--she knows how to rent cabins--she's the owner--I ain't--Godfrey, I don't know how--" Her voice tapered off. She gave a despairing little bleat, and disappeared. I clutched the book to my bosom, and began moving my feet under the table, hoping perhaps I could hook my dress on one of them. "Er--uh--you wanted to rent a cabin?" I asked, with as much poise as I could muster under the circumstances. "Well, I must say!" exclaimed the middle-aged woman, finding her voice at last. "Well, I never. Indeed, no, we do not wish to rent a cabin. Come, Horace." And she swirled out the door, Horace behind her. Grandma was abject. We had quite a discussion while I put my dress back on. "You wouldn't come," she kept protesting, rather feebly. She rubbed the burn scars on her arms--scars that, in spite of her years of experience with irons and mangles and press machines, she reinforces frequently with fresh burns. "I see you wasn't coming, so--" "Something on the order of 'Mohammed won't go to the mountain, so the mountain must come to Mohammed'?" I asked bitterly.