Vonnie never came to the flat except on Sundays. It wouldn't do to have Kate know anything about her. Several weeks after the arrival of Maria's letter she happened in just as Peter was playing the Solveig song for Pat. The child never put this particular record into his list of imperatives, but he was reconciled to it. Perhaps interested. And Peter felt a sort of compulsion of duty to play it every once and so often. He had been surprised in the beginning that no miracle of recognition had occurred in Pat's mind. To Pat she was merely a lady singing. Yet Peter could not be sure what currents might move beneath the surface. Anyhow it was enough for him that Maria had asked that he play the record. And to him there was a certain instinct to play the record for his own sake. Now that the memory was not so painful he rather wanted to keep it alive. The thing was far enough away by now to be romantic. Peter took a definite pride in the fact that once his heart had been broken. That didn't happen to everybody. His feeling about Vonnie was different. She was ever so much more fun than Maria, but she wasn't romantic. He felt that he knew her better. Certainly he was more assured and easy with her than he had ever been with Maria, but she could not move him to that curious exalted unhappiness which he had once known. People about to become monks or missionaries must feel something of what he felt for Maria. Still, that wasn't it exactly. Maria was that moment before you hit the water in a chute the chutes. Living with her was like watching a baseball game with the bases always full and two strikes on the batter. Even marriage was no windbreak. There was never a moment in that year when he had not felt the tang of a gale full upon him. Having an affair with Vonnie was highly respectable in comparison. This passion was even hospitable to little jokes. Life had become comfortable. He did not know whether or not Vonnie realized that she and Maria were different. They no longer talked ever of Maria Algarez. Even when she came in upon the Solveig song Peter would have said nothing about it. "It's Maria, isn't it?" asked Vonnie. "Yes." "Where did you get it?" "She sent it to me." "Has she come back?" "No, it just said Paris." "Maybe she thinks she don't need to come back. She can bean you just as good with a phonograph record." Peter said nothing, but let the song die out and then took the disc from the machine. "Here," said Vonnie, "let me see it." Peter handed it over. Vonnie looked at it for a moment, then she moved across the room. "Pete," she said, "what would you do if I dropped this thing out the window." She made a move as if to put the suggestion into execution. "Don't do that," cried Peter. "Don't do that," mimicked Vonnie. "You're still a damn fool, hey?" "It's not mine. It was sent to Pat." "Oh, yes, blame it on the kid. I don't suppose he's a nut about her, too. Are you, Pat?"