I thought that if she possessed even a little insight into that single pair of facts she might be a happier girl. And I also thought that any attempt to supply the insight by pointing out the two inconsistent attitudes would only tighten the hold of her small, personal dilemma. She would deny the very suggestion; she would use all her energy to authenticate the denial--immediately--and in the weeks, months, years to come--use it to kid herself. Not to investigate herself. So I said, "It's a good way to learn. Lots of gals get women teachers in dancing school. Men embarrass them." "Really?" "Sure." "You mean--if I went and enrolled and asked for a girl teacher--nobody would think I was--queer?" "Thousands do." "I never knew it." She said that almost to herself--and hurried on, as if to expunge it. "We had a man teacher that came to the house--and I was always afraid to go to a school--for fear I'd get some slimy gigolo--" "More likely a GI working his way through college." "Don't you want to dance with me again?" It was after one o'clock when we climbed back up on the humid street and the doorman flagged a cab. She said the night was young--and I said, but I was old. I said I had to get up early and work. I told the driver to go by way of Central Park and Seventy-second Street and while we hummed between the lamplit green leaf walls she moved over to be kissed, so I kissed her, but not much. And after that I spoiled my breast-pocket handkerchief wiping off the lipstick, which is another convention. We went through the empty lobby. The night clerk was a tall, handsome gent and his eyes glimmered at me when I rang the elevator bell. Harry brought a car down, let out a policeman (who had been on God alone could imagine what errand) and hoisted us to Sixteen. She took her key from the golden handbag and unlocked 1603. She turned up her face slightly. "It's been a lovely evening." I tossed the key of 1601 and caught it. "Me, too." "It's a pity a girl can't ask you in for a nightcap. But you'd only be able to have Coca-Cola." "Gotta sleep. I'll give you a buzz in the morning, Yvonne." "Will you?" "Bet." She gave me a musical good night and opened her door slowly. I walked down the red carpet--and her door closed with a bang. 3 There was nothing for me in my own apartment. The books--even Vogt's _Road to Survival_, which I had almost finished--looked nervous. The many magazines--through all of which I had coursed while bathing, eating, sitting on the toilet, riding in the plane, idling--were like partly-consumed meals: there were bits here and there I still wanted to taste, to digest--but not now. I was, of course, neither sleepy nor intending to go to bed. I can get along for days, for weeks, on four or five hours of sleep, even without throat cancer. Often, when I am writing a long story, I begin with the sunrise, go to sleep at two or three the next morning, get up with dawn again--and so continue until the job is done.