Laura threw a coat hastily over her pajamas and went into the living room. A large man, partly bald and handsome in a heavy featured way, had Marcie wrapped in a bear hug and was trying to drag her to the couch. “All right,” said Laura sharply. “Get out.” She startled them both so much that they froze where they were. The man stared at her. He was drunk, and his balance wasn’t the best. Laura, pale and silver blond, her long hair falling down her shoulders, her face strange and sensitive and imperious, looked like an apparition to him. Without taking his eyes off her he asked Marcie, “Who the hell is _that_?” “My roommate.” Marcie took advantage of his interest to slip free. Laura took her arm firmly and sent her through the kitchen door. Then she turned back to the man. “All right, you,” she said as if he were a servant. “Out.” The impudence of it amused him and angered him at the same time. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he said. She advanced on him briskly, pulling the door open sharply and facing him. “It’s my home and I’ll speak as I please,” she said. She looked as cold and unapproachable as she was hot and angry. He stared at her, not sure how to take her, and then came toward her to put a hand on her shoulder. “Marcie’s no good,” he said confidentially. “Let’s you and me—” Laura swept his hand off her shoulder. “Get out of here or I’ll call the police,” she said. He got mad. “Jesus, what a chilly little bitch you are!” he growled. “Get out,” Laura said, so cold, so controlled, that she froze him into submission. She shut the door after him, resisting the urge to slam it. _Dear God_, she thought intensely. _If I could do that to my father. Just once._ “Laura? It was just a party, Laur,” Marcie said. “We went out after dinner. Just for kicks. He got sort of out of hand. Thanks, Laur, I don’t know what I’d have done.” “Come on to bed.” Laura turned and walked toward her and Marcie preceded her into the bedroom. It occurred to her then that she was behaving with Marcie much as Beth used to behave with her. She was asserting herself, taking the lead. She liked it; with Marcie, anyway. She felt her influence and reveled in it. A feeling of tremendous strength swept through her when the man turned and left, like the other poor demented little fellow who pestered her on the subway. Only he was such a weakling he hardly counted. She had a mental image of herself treating Merrill Landon that way, and it worked a strange exaltation in her. She smiled. Marcie grinned at her crookedly. “I thought you’d be sore,” she said. “No. No, of course not. Why should I be?”