She sat down near the window, hopeful a breeze might come through it. Her eyes rested on mine with gay attentiveness. "It's terribly slow at Hat's," she said. "It has been--all month." "Everybody," I said, "is out of town." "Leaving nobody home to go out of the world with. Desolating!" "I've got some Scotch--soda--" "Weak," she said, "and lots of ice." I mixed the drink. While I was doing it, she saw the manuscript in work and went over to the bridge table. She read a few lines. "It sounds amusing," she said. "It did to me--the first time through. And the second time--when I corrected it. Right now, I'm cutting it, and my own jokes are a little less than fresh." I handed her the tall glass. "Too bad we don't have airconditioning here at the Astolat." "I like heat waves. Besides--I spent the afternoon in an air-conditioned apartment. I'm all cooled off for the weekend." "If you change your mind--we'll find a chilled spot later." "Then I'll change it--" she looked across the glass-rim--"later. I was over at the apartment of a girl named Charmaine. Used to work for Hattie--and then became the friend of a lad who died and left her millions." "Nice gal?" Gwen said, with a quick, small indrawn breath, "Darling!" Then she glanced at me again--and flushed. "Hattie told me all about Charmaine," I said. "It--it--only makes me want a man--!" She was afraid I'd be indignant, or perhaps disgusted. "That's true! In fact--that's what Charmaine tries--to do. She likes to make people all hot and bothered. She--!" The girl was embarrassed--and yet _remembering_, at the same time. The glass tilted a little in her hand. I went over to her and touched her. "Didn't they tell you about me?" She laughed, then, and sat down. "I was fussed, I guess. Some men--" I said it for her. "Some men are so narrow-minded you can't put a dime between what they don't know and what they'll never learn." The feeling that she might have made a faux pas--might have prejudiced me hopelessly against her--had gone from her eyes. She walked over to the windowsill where the radio was. She switched it on and turned the dial back to the minimal volume. While the tubes warmed, she leaned forward on the sill and looked out--across the brick terrace and the parapet, some half dozen feet away. My floor is on a slight setback. When she found she couldn't see straight down, she pulled her head inside again, found a station playing dance music, tuned it in sharply, turned it very low, and smiled at me. "Sex isn't logical," she said. "Not from the standpoint we call logic." "Take me." "An idea."