The colored girl had a soft voice. "Hello?" "This is Phil Wylie--is Hattie there?" "What's the name again, please, sir?" I spelled it. She was gone for a long time. I felt a little amused. If Hattie didn't remember--I thought she would--they'd be obliged to consult books or files or whatever records they kept, that went back to the wild, drunk, bewildering years when my first marriage had worn patience thin, shattered it, and turned loose on the town a younger man. A decade and more ago. Hattie's voice--deep, harsh--worried, I thought. "Phil, for God's sake! Where have you been keeping yourself? I heard you were a reformed character." "My wife told me to call you up." Hattie was unruffled. "Sometimes they do. How are you?" "Swell." "I'm glad to hear it! What can we do for you?" "It's a long, fascinating story that I'd like to run up and tell you." "Be a pleasure. I'm losing at bridge. Looking for an out." She chuckled. "Stingers? Side cars? What shall I get ready?" "Coffee." "Better still! Viola keeps a percolator on--but I'll have her make it fresh. Usually--it's like French pot-au-feu--goes on forever." "You've doubtless--moved--?" "Moved! We're Manhattan's most displaced persons!" She gave me a high number on the West Side. There was never a rush hour at Hattie's. But two a.m. was what might be called the peak. It embarrassed no one: she had plenty of sitting rooms. In any case, most of the customers knew one another--and knew one another as clients. A white marble lobby. An elevator with much gilded fretwork. It was operated by a Negro with an exceedingly noncommittal face. Only one door in the hall on the top floor. A good-sized apartment building, I thought, as I pushed the bell and heard the chimes; hence a good-sized bordello. The colored girl who had answered the phone answered the door, keeping the chain attached. I told her my name. The foyer was dim and modernistic. Two halls branched from it. I could see doors along both--and hear music. "Jes' follow me, please." She said it all night. The perfumes mingled, the way they do. It is a woman's medley--expensive or cheap--with no other detectable difference. One door was open. Two girls sat there--pale, straight hair that fell to a sharp, sculptured point over a book and a pair of shimmering, nylon legs. Viola went on. She opened another door. Hattie was standing at the window in a green dress--her once-sleek orange hair dyed black, now, and fluffed out--her ankles no longer slim--and when she turned I hid, as all of us do, my inner response to the etching of the interval--that very Time which I so recently had seen to be without importance. She was now about fifty-five. "Phil," she said, "this is nice! You don't seem a day older--just wiser. But look at me!" "Brunette."