Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first--I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it. I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime. But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much. One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it. We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. _Very_ old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again--really _looking_ at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint. As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing. "What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop. "Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. "There must be _something_." George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references." I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful. "Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. _I'd_ never managed to warm Marge up much. "I try," said George Prime. "Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious." "Of course, George." "I'm really delighted that you're doing so well." "Thank you, George." But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. * * * * * The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. "_What are you doing out on the street?_" He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out." "But you're not supposed to be off the premises--"