He nodded. "She has a sense of drama. All I did--feeling suffused that evening with love--was to take her to her apartment and bid her a pleasant good night. She asked me in--sure. Even tried to argue me in. But I was thinking in terms of the long and sentimental pursuit. Or--at least--decorum. Not-the-first-night, baby. That's me. Gentleman of the old school. I extracted her phone number--it wasn't difficult--and escorted her home, and went out to Brooklyn to my flat--and dreamed into my pipesmoke. Happy me." He was silent for so long that I said, "And then?" "I called her up the next afternoon. She was busy." A muscle shaped itself in his temple, twitched, vanished. "So I made a date for another evening. We had dinner and danced around--at the Stork. On dough you lent me. And that evening I accepted the invitation to go into her apartment with her. You see--she wasn't merely diverted by a dope--but she felt she owed me something. Something that corporation had paid for. Only--" "It was different for her." He seemed surprised. "How'd you know?" "I'm thinking of the difference that would understandably exist between a guy who was paying--and a guy in love with you." "It upset her." "So she tried to duck you." He was still more surprised. "She told me she'd be out of town for a couple of weeks." "And you waited--" "--the all-time eager beaver. And phoned. She sounded--odd. She asked me if I'd like to come up to her place for dinner--said she didn't feel like going out. She cooked. I know now that she had planned to tell me--that night. Instead--well, she didn't. She said she worked some as a model--which she had done. She said she had an income--not said, just hinted. I asked her to marry me--around three A.M." "Just what did she do about that?" "She cried. Quietly. Told me that she'd taken a fall out of marriage--which was also true. Didn't want to risk it again--not without being sure of the guy. And said there weren't any such guys as--she needed." "Pretty close to being pretty nice." Paul answered the door, took the drink, and put his own dollar on Karl's tray. "It went that way for about two months. Then she told me." His ice clinked without his volition. "The whole story--straight out--beginning at dinner one evening in the Waldorf. The guy she married--a smug, sadistic twirp. Getting divorced. Coming to New York. Scrimping along on modeling jobs. Running into Hattie Blaine. Ever heard of her?" Who hadn't? Hattie was madam to Manhattan's upper set. I gave a nod. "Hattie sold her on the idea--after quite a campaign. Marcia went to work. That was about three years ago. I took her home that night--placidly enough--and went for the walk that lasts till they put out the sidewalks again. Then I phoned Johann I was sick--and got sick, drinking. For a month or so more, I tried the old Presbyterian anodyne: work. No use." "Not when you're young." "Later?" "It comes with time. Go ahead."