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in the apartment, but she gave me no chance to explore her surprising sympathy. Over the weekend, mystery deepened. First, there was the Latin who came to my door: mistakenly, for he was inquiring after Miss Wildwood. It took a while to correct his error, our accents seemed mutually incoherent, but by the time we had I was charmed. He'd been put together with care, his brown head and bullfighter's figure had an exactness, a perfection, like an apple, an orange, something nature has made just right. Added to this, as decoration, were an English suit and a brisk cologne and, what is still more unlatin, a bashful manner. The second event of the day involved him again. It was toward evening, and I saw him on my way out to dinner. He was arriving in a taxi; the driver helped him totter into the house with a load of suitcases. That gave me something to chew on: by Sunday my jaws were quite tired.
    Then the picture became both darker and clearer.
    Sunday was an Indian summer day, the sun was strong, my window was open, and I heard voices on the fire escape. Holly and Mag were sprawled there on a blanket, the cat between them. Their hair, newly washed, hung lankly. They were busy, Holly varnishing her toenails, Mag knitting on a sweater. Mag was speaking.
    "If you ask me, I think you're l-l-lucky. At least there's one thing you can say for Rusty. He's an American."
    "Bully for him."
    " Sugar . There's a war on."
    "And when it's over, you've seen the last of me, boy."
    "I don't feel that way. I'm p-p-proud of my country. The men in my family were great soldiers. There's a statue of Papadaddy Wildwood smack in the center of Wildwood."
    "Fred's a soldier," said Holly. "But I doubt if he'll ever be a statue. Could be. They say the more stupid you are the braver. He's pretty stupid."
    "Fred's that boy upstairs? I didn't realize he was a soldier. But he does look stupid."
    "Yearning. Not stupid. He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out: anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid. Anyhow, he's a different Fred. Fred's my brother."
    "You call your own f-f-flesh and b-b-blood stupid?"
    "If he is he is."
    "Well, it's poor taste to say so. A boy that's fighting for you and me and all of us."
    "What is this: a bond rally?"
    "I just want you to know where I stand. I appreciate a joke, but underneath I'm a s-s-serious person. Proud to be an American. That's why I'm sorry about José." She put down her knitting needles. "You do think he's terribly good-looking, don't you?" Holly said Hmn, and swiped the cat's whiskers with her lacquer brush. "If only I could get used to the idea of m-m-marrying a Brazilian. And being a B-b-brazilian myself. It's such a canyon to cross. Six thousand miles, and not knowing the language -- "
    "Go to Berlitz."
    "Why on earth would they be teaching P-p-portu-guese? It isn't as though anyone spoke it. No, my only chance is to try and make José forget politics and become an American. It's such a useless thing for a man to want to be: the p-p-president of Brazil ." She sighed and picked up her knitting. "I must be madly in love. You saw us together. Do you think I'm madly in love?"
    "Well. Does he bite?"
    Mag dropped a stitch. "Bite?"
    "You. In bed."
    "Why, no. Should he?" Then she added, censoriously: "But he does laugh."
    "Good. That's the right spirit. I like a man who sees the humor; most of them, they're all pant and puff."
    Mag withdrew her complaint; she accepted the comment as flattery reflecting on herself. "Yes. I suppose."
    "Okay. He doesn't bite. He laughs. What else?"
    Mag counted up her dropped stitch and began again, knit, purl, purl.
    "I said -- "
    "I heard you. And it isn't that I don't want to tell you. But it's so difficult to remember. I don't d-d-dwell on these things. The way you seem to. They go out of my head like a dream. I'm sure that's the n-n-normal attitude."
    "It may be normal, darling; but I'd rather be natural." Holly paused in the process of reddening