She was talkative, all right. Soon Simon heard the lilting strains of a Strauss waltz. Jane-Marie pirouetted happily about the dining room table in three-quarter time and sat down, motioning Simon to sit near her and not on the other side. As he adjusted his napkin she leaned her head on his shoulder and said, "I like your eyes, darling." He smiled. "They're close-set." "They are not. They're very intelligent-looking. I'll bet you're an engineer or something. I'll bet you're going to help design that new construction project in Brooklyn. Gee, I like your eyes." She gazed up at them demurely. The robot server wheeled in the first course along with a frosted bottle of champagne leaning gracefully in a silver chilling urn. Simon popped the cork expertly, filled both glasses and raised his. "To us," he said. "To us, darling. Forever and ever three weeks. I hope you like chopped liver salad," Jane-Marie added nervously. "I had no way of knowing, but from now on you'll get whatever you like, I promise." "It's delicious," Simon said, beginning to eat. Other courses followed. There was jellied consommé, roast, stuffed chicken and sweet potato pudding, a salad which Simon tossed with an enthusiasm and expertness that Jane-Marie said was a joy to behold, dessert of brandied bing cherries, coffee and pie. And a constant stream of chatter from Jane-Marie. "Well," said Simon, patting the bulge at his waistline and sliding his belt-clasp an inch or two looser with the comfortable informality only a married man can display (and in his own home, thought Simon). "I must say that was good." "I'm so glad you liked it. Do you want to sit around the fire and talk, dear?" She flavored the term of endearment once more. "Dear." The robot server had begun to remove the dishes from the table. Simon stood up and was followed by Jane-Marie into the sunken living room, where he began to pile wood and kindling on the andirons in the raised-hearth fireplace. As she bent to watch him, the _décolleté_ hostess gown revealed a breathless amount of lovely white skin. "Maybe we'll retire after that," Simon said, trying not to sound the way he felt, which was more than mildly lecherous. Jane-Marie smiled a secret, small-girl smile and pulled him down on the cushion in front of the hearth, on which a bright fire was now crackling. "It's so good to have you home, darling, all to myself. Will your work keep you away much? I hope not." "To tell you the truth, I'm on vacation." "That _is_ nice," Jane-Marie murmured dreamily. "And flattering, too, because you selected me to share your vacation." "Could it be anyone but you?" Simon said. "As if it could be anyone but you." Which was perfectly, beautifully, delightfully true--for three weeks. "You married rather young, I see." Jane-Marie stroked his temples with long fingers. "Oh, now, don't be so sure," she smiled. "Maybe I'm older than I look." "No. You're about twenty. I guess you like marriage."