She wanted me to know that she didn't flirt. I expressed my apperception by ordering lemon pie, which I didn't want, and coffee, which I did--and further, by leaving my table and the restaurant while my place was being cleared and my dessert brought. I went across the hot street to the newsstand and bought _Time_ magazine--which I used to read for information and read now to keep abreast of the Biases--and the _Telegram_. When I came back to the bar I found the girl had also ordered coffee--and brandy. That settled it. "My name," I said immediately, "is Philip Wylie. I'm a writer. The waiters will vouch for me. I live here." The strain left her eyes and they widened slightly. "I've read lots of things you've written! For _heaven's sake_!" Most Americans who get around have read lots of the things I've written. This is a great instant advantage--though often a present handicap--in picking up strangers. They are at first agreeably surprised; but they generally expect writers to "be like" the characters in their books--from God alone knows what an abysmal lack of imagination--and are therefore eventually disappointed. Since I said nothing, she went on, "You're the author who hates women!" There was shine in her eyes, then--challenge--amusement. Spite, too. "Only moms," I answered. "And not 'hate'--deplore." "And Cinderellas, too!" "Oh, yes. I'd forgotten the Cinderellas. I deplore them, also." "Maybe I'm one." "A superior specimen--if true." I am semigallant. "What made you hate women so violently? Did your mother beat you? And why do you blame everything that goes wrong on women?" Two hard lines showed the muscles around her teeth. "Don't you realize that for everything you've written against women--you could say the same--and a hundred times as much--against men?"