He rejected the impulse partly because he knew the outcry his Aunt Jessica and Miriam would set up and partly because he understood it for what it was, an instinctive groping for an escape from the catastrophe of June. It was better in any case to wait, he decided, recalling the near-impish look of Herif when she had promised that he would like the Sonimuiran travelogue. What, he wondered, was Sonimuira like? Before the Porizinian story was finished he had another note from his agent: _The Turlak job went like a collector's item. They're screaming for more. Can do?_ _Henry._ Enclosed was another check that would have made Wesley drunk with triumph but for the knowledge that June was only three weeks away. The Porizinian story was mailed. Another brochure arrived, and another; life became a predictable routine; half labor, half escape. Wesley wrote and dreamed and talked briefly over the gate with Charlie Birdsall. Now and then, too tired to sit longer at his typewriter, he sat on the verandah at night with his Aunt Jessica and Miriam. They did not press him now because their victory was won and their laurels assured. May dwindled away, quiet as a candle; Wesley's account fattened in the Sampson City bank; his agent promoted an anthology of his later stories and suggested a novel. Wesley, in his room, laughed hollowly. Success, now that it had come, had an ashy taste. The Sonimuiran booklet arrived on the twenty-fifth of May. A newly-envious Charlie Birdsall passed it to him over the gate, and a bombshell of disillusion with it. "Have to admit I figured you wrong all these years," Charlie said. "You _do_ know a good deal when you see it. Glad to see you making the most of it, Wes." Wesley hefted his packet. "What do you mean?" "You know what I mean," Charlie said. "When Miss Jessica retires you'll really have it made, with Miriam looking after the inn while you pull in big money writing." He stretched his underlip with thumb and forefinger and let it snap back. "It could be as good for a man with a job like mine, if he had a half interest in a place like this to begin with. I'd jump at it just like you did." Wesley was amazed and chilled. "You'd marry for _convenience_?" "Sure," Charlie said. "There's no percentage in this romance stuff." He went on in sudden confessional candor: "Most women figure it the same way. I know Miriam does--she tried to hook me when I first got my job with the post office, but the odds were all hers and I wasn't having any. That was before you came to room with your aunt--and why do you think she picked the inn here, anyway? Miriam's not getting any younger and she's looking out for herself. I'm glad to see you've got brains enough to do the same." "Well," Wesley said. There was nothing to add to it. "Well." "Well, I better go," Charlie said, and did.