“First of all, I kicked myself six times around the block for letting _anyone_ else walk away with you. And then I noticed this little cloud, see? Absolutely no bigger than a man’s hand. You know what it was? _Professional_ jealousy. My psychiatrist explained it all to me. I was sore because you could get things out of Johnny that I couldn’t.” He grinned. “And we _won’t_ go into anything about my choice of words, either--” _Or anything about why a girl who’s as miserably “in love” as you are, should feel sorry for me for being single._... “Did you say a recording date?” he went on aloud. “A new show?” “Well, not exactly a _show_.” She tasted her chicken and nodded approvingly. “They’re doing a tape series--Bartok--tri-di. We did the first movement of that percussion and celeste thing this morning.” “A series?” “Well, I haven’t _committed_ myself after this one. I didn’t know--This chicken is marvelous, Phil.” “Was this the recording or just rehearsal?” “Recording. I did most of my practice at home. Only had to come down a couple of times.” “Well,” he said neutrally, “it’ll be good to see a new Trovi tape. You haven’t done much recently.” She looked at him with brittle amusement. “That’s like saying, ‘Johnny took a long trip.’ You know damn well I haven’t done anything for the last year, almost. Since we moved up there.” She stopped, waited, hoping he’d pick it up, give her an opening. _Not yet_, he thought with faint annoyance, and fed her a question instead about the morning’s work. He ate slowly, watching from under half-lowered lids as she talked just a little too briskly about the session: musicians; dancers; cameramen and their idiocies. The dark shadows under her eyes and strained set of her mouth did not match the bright narrative. She caught his eye, and her talk trailed off. “Okay,” he said, “So you got over being jealous of me. And Johnny does not know you called me. And you’re back at work. Maybe. _And_ you haven’t been sleeping. So?” “So--Well--Actually, it was sort of silly, I guess, calling you. I was feeling kind of low, and I--well, Johnny was drinking a lot again and--in spite of what I said before, I guess he didn’t like my taking this job too well. He may have to face up to _something_ he won’t like, soon, though ...” she added, half to herself. “Actually, things are much better now. I almost called you up to call it off, and then I thought it would be good to see you again anyhow. I’ll probably tell Johnny when I get home.” But her face tensed again when she said it. Then she broke into a smile: “Only, I think I might better say I just bumped into you? If your conscience will let you back me up...?” He nodded. Inside him a slot opened up, and like letters, the thoughts that were not spoken slid safely into a waiting-room of his mind where he could pick them up, open them and spell them out at his leisure.