The bartender took her dollar and brought some change. It meant she could have another drink. Drinking your dinner. Where had she heard that? One of her father’s friends, no doubt. She gazed at the ceiling. She wanted to talk to Jack, but she was ashamed to call him. She thought of her father again, and it gave her a sort of bitter satisfaction to imagine his face if he could see her now, alone and unhappy, disgracing him by drinking by herself, in a bar—a gay bar. Gay—that would strike him dead. She was sure of it. She smiled a little, but it was a mirthless smile. After a moment, she ordered another drink. She counted her change fuzzily. There might be enough for a third. She slipped it back in her pocket and looked up to find a young man forcing himself into a place beside her. _Damn!_ she exclaimed to herself. _As if I didn’t have enough on my mind._ Her slim arresting face registered subtle contempt and she turned away. It would have frozen another man, but this one only seemed amused. “Hello, Laura,” he said. At this, she looked at him. Her mind was a blank; she couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?” she said. “No.” He grinned. “I’m Dutton. This is for you.” He held out a piece of paper and she took it, curious. On it was a devilish reproduction of her own features mocking her from the white page. “You’re the artist,” she accused him suddenly. “Thanks for the compliment.” “I don’t want it.” “Keep it.” “I won’t pay for it.” “You don’t have to.” He laughed at her consternation. “It’s paid for, doll. Take it home. Frame it. Enjoy it.” Laura stared at him. “Who paid for it?” “She said not to tell.” He laughed. “You’re a bitch to caricature. You know? Look me up sometime, I’ll do a good one. I like your face.” And he turned and wriggled out of the crowd. Laura was left standing at the bar with the cartoon of herself. She was suddenly humiliated and angry. She felt ridiculous standing there holding the silly thing, not knowing who paid for it. Her glance swept down the bar, looking for a face to accuse, but she recognized no one. No one paid her any attention. She studied the sketch once more. It was clever, insolent; it made a carnival curiosity of her face. Quietly, deliberately, with a feeling of satisfaction, she tore the sketch in half. And in half again. And threw it down behind the bar where the bartender would grind it into the wet floor. Then she picked up her glass and finished her drink. “What did you do that for?” said a low voice, so close to her ear that she jumped and a drop of whisky ran down her chin. “It was a damn good likeness.” Laura looked up, gazing straight ahead of her, knowing who it was now and mad. She pulled a dime out of her pocket and smacked it on the bar in front of her. “I owe you a dime, Beebo. There it is. Thanks for the picture. Next time don’t waste your money.”