We were together. We had our lives.... I patted her. The wings of my spirit began to beat against her pitiable prospect--the racking weeks ahead, the shots and blood tests, clinical examinations, probings and slides and stains, reports, hospitalizations while the doctors observed, sweats, chills, toxic horrors, frets, pains, and bravery summoned every morning from the deep well of her to last another day. The elevator rose. "Hell," I said, the best I could say, "we'll get you on the vaccine today. You phone Dr. Frank immediately. And then lie down. I'll unpack you. In a few weeks, you'll be right as rain." I fumbled my key into the lock and automatically took from the doorclip my accumulation of morning mail and messages. She asked about Paul and I told her the tale. Afterwards, she went to the phone, dialed, and watched me with loving, apologetic eyes--as if it were her fault she was infected. While she described to the specialist the symptoms of this new malevolence I went through the mail, stopped at a letter from my lawyer, ripped it open. Enclosed in it was a note from my accountant. The Bureau of Internal Revenue, he wrote, wanted, on the following Thursday, to go over with me the records pertaining to my income tax declarations for 1945 and 1946. Records in filing cabinets in storage in Miami Beach. Records on high closet shelves in Rushford. Records stored here in the cellar of the Astolat. In suitcases, boxes, portfolios and old trunks. Records they would not be able to check over next Thursday--because it would take a week and cost hundreds of dollars to get them together. They'd be willing to wait the week and they did not care about the cost to me; their interest would be to see if perhaps, after interminable scrutiny of the dollars and cents of forgotten years, they could find any reason to add a few more hundreds, or a thousand, to the taxes already paid. Were I a businessman, enamored of columns of figures, such a prospect might scarcely have scarred the surface of my attention. I am not. The order was another garnishee of tranquillity--from then until I had assembled the records, held the conferences, and paid up, if any misjudgment were claimed or any disagreement ensued. I felt chained to a tormented system I could forever deplore but never alter. The wasteful exigency closed around me like a jail. Ricky hung up. I put the letter into my pocket. She would be harassed by it--because I was. Let it wait till some happier time. "Dr. Frank wants me to come right down," she said. "Before lunch?" "I'm not hungry, anyway, dear." "I'll go with you." "You stay here and eat!" "You need somebody along--" "Nonsense! I'm used to it. I won't hear of your going!" And so we argued a little and she had her way. She went out alone in the rain with her misery. There was a message saying that Harold had called. I phoned back.