"From the looks of your side-board," she went on cheerily, "you were just getting ready to mix a drink. I'm an expert. Shall I mix a couple?" He resisted the inclination to rise when she did, and deliberately kept his eyes from following her. He snatched up the paper, rustled it noisily and tried to concentrate on the headlines. Two things distracted him. One was the faint scent of perfume and the other was the chinking of ice and glasses. He put the paper aside, tried to put his mind on distant things. This soon palled. He was about to get up and pace the floor when she returned and handed him a cool glass. "Thanks," he said and leaned back. She sat down again, so close that her shoulder brushed his. He edged over against the arm of the couch, putting an inch of space between them, glanced sidelong at her, and drank. He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, smacked his lips and drank again. "What did you put in it?" "About a spoonful of creme de menthe, a couple drops of bitters and about two ounces of rye. Like it?" He scowled deliberately, armoring himself against his feelings. "It's fair--for a woman's mixings. You should have put in more liquor." "Of course. I'll learn." "Not from me," he snapped. "I'm a woman-hater." She leaned toward him. "Why?" He tossed off the balance of the drink, set the glass on the table and made a sweeping gesture. "They're all alike," he said brutally. "Fickle and treacherous. Deceivers. Always flinging their sex around." "Not all women," she countered. "Take this Professor Madigan who discovered that new adhesion force." "A woman?" "Of course. Professor Madigan is a scholarly young woman. Her sex appeal might not win a beauty contest, but she discovered a perfectly wonderful man-catcher." "What?" "A new force. Works like gravity--only it's different. Its strength increases in ratio to the square of the distance." "What are you talking about? Women don't understand things like that." "No?" "No! Need I spell it out for you? Your delivery should be in the pneumatic by now. Why don't you pick it up and go home and make your cake?" "I shall. I had no idea I was living next door to a misogynist, and a brutal one at that." "I don't like women," Kerran said emphatically. "They're all alike. Fickle. Deceivers. Everything about them artificial. Lips, color, shape." The girl rose and stood over him. "I'm not wearing make-up," she asserted. "You flatter yourself in thinking I would put on my face to come across the hall." "Your shape! Your hips aren't that neat!" The color rose in her cheeks. She lifted a hand as though to strike him. The hand trembled. She lowered it to her side. "I do not wear a girdle. Want to feel?" "No," he said, his own color rising. "Go on home."