"I thought--you were looking me over." She sat down suddenly--folded in the middle and dropped into a chair. "You did?" "Yes, I did." "Well--here I am." She spoke in a low tone--not with resignation, not with spite. "All you have to do is say so." I skipped that. "Marcia, I never needed to consider what sort of person you were. All I needed to think about was what sort of guy Paul is. And I could see--I thought I could--the whole thing coming apart--slowly, painfully, rottenly--" "Go on. Play God with us poor mortals." "My opinion--that's all--sure. I know Paul pretty well, though." "Better than I do?" She grinned sarcastically. "Better. I know better what he comes from. Then I saw you. I had the impression, Marcia, that your maternal instincts were involved. You were pulling the child to your warm breast and nourishing his starved little body. Feelings like that. No-good feelings, for wives." She had sucked her lips into a point; she glanced at me almost with fear; so I went on. "Maybe you thought about running errands for his kids. But actually you did more thinking about fondling his emotions--taking care of him--working for him. And you even did work. You sat there in the Knight's Bar looking at Paul like a proud female parent--like a doting mother sharing in her son's discussions of his conquests. You were the conquered--but you were the string-pulling mamma, too. Take it or leave it--that's how I felt you felt about him! And then I caught you looking at me--looking at me the way a girl with warm insides looks at a man. So if I didn't give you the impression I was struck silly with the possibilities of the match--that's also why. I'm sorry--but there's the whole answer." She was breathing evenly--but more deeply than anybody needed to breathe, just sitting. Down the hall, doors opened and shut. Raucous, faintly nervous male laughter echoed. "Some of the boys from the convention," she said, almost reluctantly--as if she found it necessary to explain so I wouldn't stop, and as if she was afraid the explanation would stop me. I looked at her--at a breathing, beautiful girl--and I thought for a moment about the canoe-hats. Then I shook it off. "If a good gal--a sweethearted dame who had no stomach for the life--had started living with Paul, I'd have objected. In your case--I didn't believe you were even that--" Feet marched on happy excursions down the hall. Somebody tried the door--opened it, to his surprise--and apologized gruffly without daring to carry the impulse through and look in.