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"I mean the point is did you ever hear anything so fascinating in your life, in a way? I mean it's so hard to just say it's absolute coincidence and then just let it go at that--that's what's so fascinating to me. At least, that's what's so terribly--" She broke off. Lane was shifting restively in his chair, and there was an expression on his face--a matter of raised eyebrows, chiefly--that she knew very well. "What's the matter?" she asked.
     
        "You actually believe that stuff, or what?"
     
        Franny reached for the pack of cigarettes and took one out. "I didn't say I believed it or I didn't believe it," she said, and scanned the table for the folder of matches. "I said it was fascinating." She accepted a light from Lane. "I just think it's a terribly peculiar coincidence," she said, exhaling smoke, "that you keep running into that kind of advice-- I mean all these really advanced and absolutely unbogus religious persons that keep telling you if you repeat the name of God incessantly, something happens, Even in India. In India, they tell you to meditate on the 'Om,' which means the same thing, really, and the exact same result is supposed to happen. So I mean you can't just rationalize it away without even--"
     
        "What is the result?" Lane said shortly.
     
        "What?"
     
        "I mean what is the result that's supposed to follow? All this synchronization business and mumbo-jumbo. You get heart trouble? I don't know if you know it, but you could do yourself, somebody could do himself a great deal of real--"
     
        "You get to see God. Something happens in some absolutely nonphysical part of the heart-- where the Hindus say that Atman resides, if you ever took any Religion--and you see God, that's all." She flicked her cigarette ash self-consciously, just missing the ashtray. She picked up the ash with her fingers and put it in. "And don't ask me who or what God is. I mean I don't even know if He exists. When I was little, I used to think--" She stopped. The waiter had come to take away the dishes and redistribute menus.
     
        "You want some dessert, or coffee?" Lane asked.
     
        "I think I'll just finish my milk. But you have some," Franny said. The waiter had just taken away her plate with the untouched chicken sandwich. She didn't dare to look up at him.
     
        Lane looked at his wristwatch. "God. We don't have time. We're lucky if we get to the game on time." He looked up at the waiter. "Just coffee for me, please." He watched the waiter leave, then leaned forward, arms on the table, thoroughly relaxed, stomach full, coffee due to arrive momentarily, and said, "Well, it's interesting, anyway. All that stuff ... I don't think you leave any margin for the most elementary psychology. I mean I think all those religious experiences have a very obvious psychological background--you know what I mean. . . . It's interesting, though. I mean you can't deny that." He looked over at Franny and smiled at her. "Anyway. Just in case I forgot to mention it. I love you. Did I get around to mentioning that?"
     
        "Lane, would you excuse me again for just a second?" Franny said. She had got up before the question was completely out.
     
        Lane got up, too, slowly, looking at her. "You all right?" he asked. "You feel sick again, or what?"
     
        "Just funny. I'll be right back."
     
        She walked briskly through the dining room, taking the same route she had taken earlier. But she stopped quite short at the small cocktail bar at the far end of the room. The bartender, who was wiping a sherry glass dry, looked at her. She put her right hand on the bar, then lowered her head--bowed it--and put her left hand to her forehead, just touching it with the fingertips. She weaved a trifle, then fainted, collapsing to the floor.
     
    IT was nearly five minutes before Franny came thoroughly to. She was on a couch in the manager's office, and Lane was sitting beside