She shrugged. "It was a possibility within our specialty, so I set out to prove or disprove it. From the appearance of these photographs, I don't think we have _disproved_ it." It was a properly cautious statement that pleased Murt. They were a long way from proving that their newly discovered virus was the culprit, but the research had definitely produced a question mark. Murt ordered copies of the photomicrographs from Ebert Industrial Labs and arranged for a complete dossier to be forwarded to the U. S. Health Service. That night, he was startled by a headline and lead story that quoted the government bulletin. The science editor had a field day, tying in speculation that "Doctors Suspect Love Bug Epidemic." * * * * * The next day, three reporters called upon him, each with the same query. "It's rumored that you are doing research on the Love Bug, Dr. Murt. Anything to report?" He shooed them out angrily, after learning that someone at Ebert Labs had given them the tip. Phyllis smiled at him as he slammed the door after the last reporter. "You still discount the Love Bug idea, don't you?" she asked. "I dislike sensationalism in a matter like this," he said. "Even if their assumptions were true, I wouldn't like it." "You can't blame the papers. They're starved for some explanation. I pity your passion for anonymity if your virus proves to be the causative factor." "_My_ virus?" "Certainly. The whole project is under your auspices and direction." "See here, Phyl, _you_ did the work." "Don't you dare mention my name," she said. "You're my superior and senior pathologist and it's your duty to protect me against the press. I don't want columnists popping out of my bathroom any more than you do." Murt gave up. "The argument is entirely anticipatory," he pointed out. "The virus might turn out to be a batch of dormant German measles. Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?" "Why?" She shot the question back at him like a rebounding tennis ball. "Answer that first!" Murt opened his mouth. He could not recall ever hearing such a rude rejoinder to an invitation to dinner. Not that there had been a plethora of amenities between them, but this was unthinkable! The question was, why _should_ she have dinner with him? Give her eight good reasons. What was his motive in asking her? In one word, _why_? Murt searched her face, but only a quiet interest showed in her expression. "Why does any man invite any woman to dinner?" he countered. "You aren't _any_ man, Dr. Murt. Nor am I _any_ woman. I want your specific reason for inviting me to dinner. Is it to discuss professional matters or--what?" "Good Lord, Dr. Sutton!" He followed her lead in using the formal address. "Man is a social animal! I would enjoy your company at dinner, that's all. At least, I thought I would."