At the age of twenty-two, before he became inured to them, Ted had been in love with a model. It had been a warm, bright, ecstatic affair, though it had ended with mutual relief. Since that time, there had been only Ann. And she'd been enough, at first. Before the home and garden obsession had engulfed her. Now, Ted told himself, _I'm not an unreasonable man. I am a romantic, admittedly, and full of latent energy, but I have no natural Tom-cat inclinations._ The blonde was reading. Looked like a novel, though it could have been a cook book or a text on hooked rugs. Probably a novel of romance. Her shoulders were bare and finely moulded, her chin line clean. He wondered about the color of her eyes. From the other side of the nutmeg tree, the scrubby squirrel again came into view. At the base of the tree, it stood for a moment with its back to Ted, looking down at the blonde. Then it turned and came over to inspect a weather-beaten golf ball near the sprinkler. Ted watched it closely. "Well, traveler, what did you think of Mars?" "Didn't see much of it," Ted answered. "There's not much to see. Was that a dream?" "Wasn't it?" "Couldn't get your breath, could you? You _know_ you were there, don't you?" "No." The squirrel sat down. "Difficult, aren't you? Why should I bother?" Ted said nothing. "She's a beautiful girl. Can't see why her husband would leave her." Ted asked, "Who's a beautiful girl?" The squirrel went over to nose the golf ball, again. "I asked a question," Ted said. The squirrel sat up, looking at the nutmeg tree. "Look, Mr. Truesdale, we've got to have a meeting of minds. You know who's a beautiful girl, and so do I. Good gosh, you've been sitting there, drooling, all morning. And now you're back for more." The bright black eyes turned Ted's way. "Don't be so conventional. That's what kept you from being a first rate artist." Ted was silent. "Do we do business? Or don't we?" Ted said, "How can you talk without opening your mouth?" "Talk? Squirrels can't talk, you fool." "Well, how can you make yourself heard, then?" "Do you have to pry, Truesdale? You're getting a break, as it is. Do you have to know _everything_?" * * * * * Ted looked at his hands, and at the nutmeg tree. And back at the squirrel. A thirty-nine year old retired artist, sitting in the sun and talking to himself. What a jerk he was getting to be. "Okay, I've been wrong before." The squirrel started for the tree. "Wait!" Ted almost shouted. From below, the blonde glanced his way, and he realized his voice had carried that far. The squirrel waited; the blonde went back to her book. "What," Ted asked hesitantly, "did you mean about doing business?" "You and the blonde. Don't tell me you wouldn't like to get to know her." Ted squirmed in his chair. "I--well, she's certainly lovely." "Sure. I'll go down and sound her out. I'll keep in touch, Truesdale."