“Fine!” She talked on, still glowing, about the girls across the street and the ragged old man who had tipped his hat to her as he passed: the way the whole city _tingled_ on this kind of June day. She had always loved New York. And she didn’t get down much these days. Like a kid, on a holiday, he thought--or more like a kid playing hookey.... “Does Johnny know you’re out?” It started light, but by the time the words were on his lips, he had to work at keeping it that way. She laughed. She had a good laugh, but this time it had lost the spontaneity of the sidewalk. “I’m not ... an escaped prisoner,” she said. “Johnny thinks it’s great I’m doing a little work for a change.” A few more minutes of holiday would have been nice, Phil thought irritably. Not _escaped_, no.... She went on, “He just flew me down, and I had a recording date at the Center. That’s what made me think of calling you--I knew I’d be in the neighborhood.” The waiter set frosted martini glasses in front of them. Lisa lifted her glass and held it toward Phil in a smiling toast. She sipped slowly. “All right, mastermind, you’re way ahead of me. No, he does _not_ know I’m out--” she set the glass back on the table with care--“with _you_.” Abruptly, the cloak of detached relaxation that had enveloped her, held her apart from the sidewalk crowd, fell from her shoulders. It was, perversely, like watching another woman take off a too-tight dress, sighing out of girdle, stockings, brassière, into naked comfort. Lisa seemed almost to vent the same sigh of relief as she stripped the practiced, professional, surface of calm from the coiled tense energies inside her. “In fact, I almost called you to call it off,” she said. “After I called yesterday, I realized Johnny wouldn’t--Well, I guess I was sort of peeved. He was being silly about this morning. Oh Hell! I don’t have to explain it to you.” The edge of brightness in her voice was sharp. Phil leaned back in his chair, his hand twirling the stem of his glass on the cocktail napkin, making wet circles. Across the table, Lisa sat straight on her chair, her lips moving with taut animation, shoulders tensing a little with each new sentence. “You know, when we first started--seeing each other--he used to talk about you all the time: ‘Phil said this,’ and ‘Phil told me that’ and ‘The way Phil explains it....’ It got to where I was actually jealous of you for a while there....” She hesitated. “Fair enough,” he smiled. “I was kind of jealous myself....” “I bite,” she said. “Of whom?” “‘And to which, and with what?’” This time her laugh was genuine. “Hey, Doc, remember me? I’m not a patient. I’m just your lunch date. The rule book says you have to _answer_ my questions.” “Well, I did. _Both_ of you, if you’ve got to know.” She was embarrassed; he knew why, and let himself enjoy her confusion a moment before he explained: