"I'll be busy. Don't you think? The children, for one thing. And my libido will be preoccupied, I imagine. Don't you? And suppose I had a small emotional accident some foggy afternoon at Malibu?" "Rol would raise hell." Her dimples showed. "I would try to make certain he never found out about it. My privacy. And I am quoting you, Dr. Wylie! Oh, I could hug you right here and now! And anyway--it isn't so much something you do. It's something to know is unlocked, that's all. When you can--you probably never do; when you can't--you hardly do anything but yearn; and never know for what. You know that--don't you? That's why Gwen--?" I picked up her hand and looked at the big, square diamond. "Pin none of your flowers on me, cooky. It was a dangerous prescription. I tried to weasel out of the charge that I'd compounded it. But I did. Mr. Wylie's toxic monologue." "Mr. Wylie's elixir for the self-righteous." "America," I said, "is the wrong climate for taking a capsule of that so-called sin and expecting a cure. In some other country--or age--" "Don't orate today. I couldn't listen." She ate a shrimp. "I wish I knew more about you." "Me, too." I went on, "Be good to Rol. Remember--these high tides run out. And remember--they always come in again." "You going?" She said it almost without interest. She didn't need company any more. I nodded. "The last installment is passing through the chopper. Here's another item, cooky. People who live in greenhouses mustn't cast the first stone." For a moment, her gaze faltered. I watched delicate changes of her color; she had beautiful skin. I watched the old stain reappear in her eyes. Her chin thrust out a little and shook a little and was firm. Her eyes turned amethyst again. "I'll remember," she said. I thought she would, maybe. "Do me a favor?" She was opening her handbag. "I haven't told dad I was flying back. I don't want to go through all the argument. Will you call him--after five-thirty?" "If I don't forget." She closed the bag. "I bet you would! So thanks anyhow. I can wire him--from La Guardia." "Safer." She said, "Good-bye, Phil." I kissed her. 10 It didn't seem possible to work. For half an hour I fussed around--trying to feel cooler--looking at my throat in the living room mirror and then the mirror on the medicine chest in the bathroom--hunting for a sunless spot in the forest-green sitting room--shunting the bridge table about. I condensed the opening of Part Six in my mind, then tapped out the result on the portable. I thought Durfree would like it. Editors are fond--overfond of brevity. I took a shower and tried to write wet, but it ran down me, and my tail itched on the turkish towel. Finally, I got cutting again. Paul showed up around four--when I had about ten pages--an hour--left to go. He looked like an adolescent registering despair in an amateur play.