He turned to face her, as did Hamilton. Ted said, "I was going to climb up and knock down that nest." "Oh, forget it. It was a silly whim of mine, anyway. Look at him, Ted. He seems to be begging you." "You don't know him," Ted said. "He fools us all." "Oh, Ted, you've had too much sun this morning. Look at those bright, black eyes. He wants to be friends." Hamilton sat up on his haunches, his front paws curled, looking from one to the other beseechingly. Ted saw the quick moisture in Ann's eyes and said, "Well, it's your decision, then. It's your responsibility." He walked past her and into the house. * * * * * He went up to his room. Projection.... The little devil had hit him with that one. Don't blame yourself, Ted Truesdale. Ann has too many unimportant interests; Ann's cold. How many lines of communication did he have to her, other than the physical? Had he tried to find enough points of intellectual contact? When they were first married it was all art with Ann. Because he was an artist. When she'd discovered he was an artist who knew nothing of art, that had died. The home, then, and she'd made him a home to be proud of. Wasn't it the place he spent most of his time, sitting around? But, with these interests, Ann had grown. While he sat, she'd grown. She'd grown beyond bars and dancing and small talk. She didn't realize it, herself, but she'd grown beyond him. The two bedrooms had been originally his idea, so he wouldn't waken her if he read late at night. And when that wasn't sufficient to kill his yawning hours, he'd tried to come back along the single, physical line of communication. What else did he have to offer her? He took another shower. He shaved and annointed his hair with perfumed oil. He wore his newest, trickiest slacks and an open-necked sport shirt. He'd been told he had an attractive neck. Then he went down to lunch. In the living room, in Ted's favorite chair near the fireplace, Henri sat, a drink in his hand. Henri rose, a dark, dynamic figure. He said genially, "Well, Ted, old man, it's been some time." "Not long enough for me to be an old man," Ted said. "How goes the newest campaign, Henri?" Henri's smile was bland, his hand-clasp firm. "Slowly. No ill will, I hope, Ted?" Poise, assurance, the light touch. "I'm not as modern as I should be, probably," Ted answered. "Been to Venus, lately?" The drink wobbled in Henri's left hand. The poise, for a moment, was shattered. "Ven--Venice? In Italy, you mean?" "In California. You're trembling, Henri. Your heart?" "Heart--?" Blank, oafish stare, the poise scrambling to get back. "At our age, we have to watch the ticker," Ted warned him. "What are you drinking?" Henri stared at his nearly-empty glass. "Scotch--I--ah--" "Sure thing. I'll have one with you." Ted went over to the liquor cabinet. When he returned, with the pair of drinks, Ann was in the room. Ann said, "I could use one, myself."