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said, “put on another place. We’ll be right in.”
    Mrs. Curtis gave one more accusing look to Hazen, destroyer of dinners, and went back to the kitchen.
    “Well, talk of the silver lining,” Hazen said, with an attempt at heartiness. “And I thought I was going to have to dine alone tonight.”
    Although Hazen had spoken without any trace of self-pity, Strand had the feeling that, despite the cost, the prospect of not being alone that night was a welcome one for him.
    Hazen looked around the big living room, taking in the grand piano, the stacks of sheet music, the orderly shelves of records, Leslie’s landscapes. “What a nice room,” Hazen said. “I take it yours is a musical family…”
    “We all listen ,” Strand said. “My wife and son are the only ones you might call musicians.”
    “My mother used to play the piano for me,” Hazen said, with a funny little dismissing gesture. “Ages ago. Does your son play the piano?”
    “My wife,” Strand said. “Jimmy plays the electric guitar. Country rock, I think it’s called.”
    “And the landscapes?” Hazen said. “I don’t recognize the artist.”
    “My wife,” Strand said.
    Hazen nodded, but didn’t say anything.
    Eleanor and Caroline came into the room. Caroline was in clean slacks and sweater, her face scrubbed from the shower, no signs that she had vanquished three hoodlums in solitary battle barely an hour ago and had broken into hysterical weeping in her sister’s arms. Finally, she had left the racquet behind her. She was smiling and looked gay and younger than her seventeen years. “How’s the patient?” she asked.
    “More or less in good repair,” Hazen said. “Thanks to your mother. And you, Miss Caroline, how do you feel?”
    “Oh.” Caroline threw up her arms airily. “Triumphant. I have new faith in my powers.” She giggled. “I don’t know if I’d do it again, though, if I had any time to think.”
    “How was it you were alone?” Strand asked. “Where was that boy you were playing with?”
    “He lives on the East Side,” Caroline said.
    “Will you ever be able to use that racquet again?” Hazen asked.
    “I’m afraid not,” Caroline said. “It is a little bent. If they’d only let me hit my opponents instead of the ball I bet I’d sweep through tournaments.” She giggled again.
    “Weren’t you afraid?” Hazen asked.
    “Only later,” Caroline said. “And that doesn’t count, does it?”
    Jimmy came in and said, “The bicycle’s locked in the cellar. You can send somebody around for it whenever you want, Mr. Hazen. It is a beauty.”
    “I’ll have one of my secretaries pick it up in the morning,” said Hazen. “I don’t believe I’ll be using it much for the next few days. Unless Miss Caroline volunteers to act as my bodyguard.”
    “I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.” Caroline giggled again.
    Mrs. Curtis appeared at the doorway to the dining room and glared.
    “Oh, dear,” Leslie said, “I think we’d better be sitting down.”
    Strand made a move to help Hazen as he stood up, but Hazen ignored the outstretched arm and took a step, without wobbling, toward the dining room as Leslie led the way.
    “What a pretty table,” Hazen said as Leslie seated him on her right. His speech was a little muffled, as he held the iced towel to his cheek with his bandaged hand. “I hope I’m not intruding on an important family conference.”
    “We have a rule,” Strand said, feeling the pangs of hunger, “that the only important thing we talk about on Friday nights is food.” That wasn’t true and he said it only to be polite. Last Friday there had been a discussion about politics that had ended in shouting and Eleanor’s describing her father’s attitude as Early Louis XIV. They had all enjoyed the evening. He picked up the bottle of Chianti. “Wine?” he asked.
    “Thank you,” Hazen said. “I’m terribly thirsty suddenly.”
    “Loss of blood,” Caroline said gaily.
    “Terror, my