Lennox climbed to his feet, his throat working convulsively. "Bathroom," he croaked. He was sick. Aimee knew the symptoms well, and no vendetta was worth another cleaning bill. She turned Lennox around and pushed him competently through a narrow door into the small bedroom and then into the bathroom. She turned on the light, flipped up the toilet lid and with the skill of long experience, bent his head down to the bowl. Then she backed out and slammed the door. During the preliminary moment of agony, Lennox thought: "They play Boys' Rules. Oh Virgins! Respectables! Learn from them--" Then the purge began. When the heaving stopped, Lennox straightened painfully, flushed the toilet, then examined his face in the mirror. To him it was the face of Mr. Clarence Fox, the visiting Quaker from Philadelphia. His cropped hair was still sleek; nothing could ever muss it. But his dark eyes had heavy purple shadows around them, and his lined face was bruised. He was purged, still drunk, but beginning to sober. He staggered to the bedroom, found his clothes neatly hung in a closet, and dressed. He went out into the living room. Aimee had straightened it. She wore a white housecoat blemished by green and scarlet petunias, and was kneeling alongside the new television set plugging it into a wall outlet. "If you got any on the floor you better clean it up," she said icily. "Merry Christmas," he answered. "Happy to pay for damage to life and limb." Lennox reached into his pocket, took out his wallet and was fingering through it for money when his eye noticed the identification card. "This isn't my wallet," he said. "What?" Lennox plucked at his shirt dubiously. "Not my clothes either." "What are you talking about, Clarence? Them's your clothes." Aimee switched on the set and fiddled with the controls. "No. Not mine. Belong to somebody else. Character named Lennox." "Who?" He extended the wallet for Aimee to examine. "My name's Fox. Clarence Fox from Philadelphia. This is Jordan Lennox, says here. See? Jordan Lennox. How'd he get into the act?" The screen ignited, herringboned, then sprang into life. The blast of Johnny Plummer's orchestra filled the room with bright expectation. A Main-Title card displayed white comedy letters against a cartoon background while the voice of Oliver Stacy read it with frenetic sell: THE MODE SHOW ... STARRING MIG MASON AND DIGGY DIXON ... PLAYING--'WHO HE?' "Who He!" Aimee called over the burst of studio applause. I love that program. I get every question right. I could make a fortune if I could get on." She backed up, feeling for a chair, her eyes fixed on the screen. Jake Lennox's consciousness ignited, herringboned, then sprang into life. "'Who He!'" he burst out, stunned and bewildered. "That's my show." Clarence Fox stole back to Philadelphia. "That's my show," Lennox repeated. "How do you mean, your show?" "I write it. I own a piece of it." "That's a hot one," Aimee laughed.