Perhaps he should have felt that way himself. But somehow he couldn't. She just wasn't physically attractive enough. Not bad looking, exactly, and a beauty parlor could have done wonders for her. But he had other things on his mind--at least for the moment. She stood facing him in the doorway, looking more forlorn than usual, as if she regretted the slightly mocking way she'd called out to him through the door, calling him "silly" and all that--he had been too drowsy to take in the words, but he had an obscure feeling that she'd said something she was now regretting and her first words made him sure of it. "I guess this story just wasn't liked by one of those stupid editors you're always saying don't know their--it's a word I don't like to use--from a hole in the ground. Do you want me to open it for you?" "No, I'll open it," he said. He took the large, bulky envelope from her, and started to close the door, half-blocking the aperture with his body, but she squeezed past him into the room. She crossed the room with a slow, self-conscious undulation of her hips and sat down on the edge of his bed. He felt a sudden stab of compassion for her. She was doing her pathetic best to entice him and he was in no mood to be enticed. The bulky envelope had given him a jolt. It wasn't the worst jolt he'd ever experienced--he'd sold fifteen stories to the small-circulation quality magazines and two to the slicks, and you had to expect rejections now and then--but he had counted heavily on this particular story going over big. It was an unusual story, a powerful story. He'd put virtually everything he had into it. And now--it had been slammed, thrown back in his face, with probably a miserable, printed rejection slip. Editors just didn't give a damn how much they hurt you--or insulted you. Quite famous authors occasionally got printed rejection slips. He knew that, but it didn't make the outrage even slightly more palatable or easy to accept. He looked at the neat, printed address--Ralph Gilmore, 559 West 38th Street, New York City--and an angry flush mounted to his cheekbones. Not typewritten--_printed_--as if some incredible new machine had been used to add insult to injury. He tore the envelope open and hesitated for an instant before removing its contents. What if he had been jumping to an unjust conclusion? He had no absolute assurance that the envelope contained a rejection slip. Quite possibly the editor had written him a long and sympathetic letter, expressing sincere regrets. No ... that would have been worse. A hundred times worse. The manuscript had been returned to him, so obviously it had been rejected. What the hell did he care about how sorry the editor might feel about it?