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knocked or rang. We all knew if the hall door was locked that he wasn’t receiving.” Her brown eyes, which had been averted, turned to me. “What you’re thinking wasn’t so, Mark. Sex was a thing of the past with Nikos. Because of his heart—well, he was afraid. I mean—well, that’s what I mean.”
    â€œSuppose you try saying all of what you mean,” I said.
    She looked like a puzzled little child when that frown creased her forehead. “I’ve been with Nikos for almost two years,” she said, “sleeping, most of the time, in a room right next to him or near him. So, if he had ideas he wanted to make notes on—well, like I told you. But in all that time, Mark, he never put a hand on me—except maybe a little pat on the shoulder if he helped me on with a coat or something. Nothing sexy; no mauling or pawing. And I never saw any dirty-old-Mansville routines with any of the other girls. He liked to have us around; he loved youth; I think he must have been a pretty lusty kid when he was young. But he wasn’t young now. He didn’t look it, you know, but he was seventy-five.”
    He hadn’t looked any age, I thought; a great, fat Buddha.
    â€œI think like it was maybe after his heart trouble started, which was long before me, that he got interested in women’s fashions. It’s not like the dressmaking business your hard-up aunt used to go into in the old days. It’s a whole world in itself, you know?”
    â€œVaguely,” I said.
    â€œOh, it’s a great deal more than clothes and accessories—carefully matching dresses, cosmetics, and hairdos. It’s what you do, and where you go and what you own. Women who make the fashion scene, like Dodo Faraday, are photographed in Rome, in Acapulco, in Antigua; they’re shown reading expensive art books, talking Italian to Italians; they get their pictures taken leaving such In-places as La Grenouille, Le Mistral, or one or two other glamor haunts where they go for lunch and eat only a plate of hors d’oeuvres. You see what I mean?”
    â€œKeep coming,” I said.
    â€œThis fashion world, Mark—it’s a symbol of youth, of better education, of wealth, of a special kind of sophistication, of a kind of special know-how. You don’t make the list of Ten Best-Dressed Women just by wearing the best clothes. You have to have the right attitudes, involve yourself in the right activities, and own the right possessions.”
    â€œYou ought to write a book,” I said.
    â€œI could—if I could like write,” she said. “I was sixteen when I became a model; I was eighteen when Nikos took me out of that and made me his—his—”
    â€œSecretary,” I reminded her.
    â€œI’m trying to be honest with you, Mark! I—I was a kind of special kind of model for him, if you see what I mean.”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œThe designer he’s interested in—it’s Max now, but there have been a lot of others before Max—would produce the designs and a few samples of a new collection. Like there’d be a see-through evening gown. ‘Try it, Jan,’ he’d say to me. So I’d put on the dress and go to his rooms. I didn’t just strut around, you understand. It would be sort of like a date; we’d talk, and maybe have dinner or a champagne supper, and all the time he’d be looking—”
    â€œAt you through the dress,” I said.
    â€œThat’s from Dullsville,” she said. “He always said you could never tell about a dress a model parades on the runway at a showing. How would it be if you wore it ‘out’ somewhere? So I wore them for him—maybe a whole evening. And then he’d thank me very politely and say, ‘Tell them yes,’ or ‘Tell them no, it doesn’t send me.’ One time a big French designer did a whole line of sleep things—little