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sessions. She was a member of the Forum, acting being one of the many careers to which she had once aspired. She had surprised everyone, especially herself, by winning her audition. But she was not an actor and she would not take advantage. She loved the Forum and the friends who came there to hone their craft between and sometimes during engagements. She was comfortable there, even now, when she was comfortable practically nowhere else. The actors came and went, passing through the Green Room where she sat on the arm of a sofa, some saying, “Hi,” some, “How are you?” and some who wouldn’t speak if spoken to, afraid it might break their concentration. If what had happened to her was known among them, no sign of it was evident; after all, it was not as though she had been replaced in rehearsal.
    The office door opened and Bradley Holmes, the artistic director of the Forum, emerged. He was a slight, handsome man in his fifties with strong academic and theater credits. He greeted Julie more warmly than was his habit and, almost out of the room, paused and turned back. “Is there anything I can do for you, Julie?”
    She took advantage. “Help me get an interview with Richard Garvy.”
    “Not in the Forum,” Holmes said sharply.
    “Certainly not. He can name the place.”
    Holmes made a sound that lacked promise. Reggie approached with a container of coffee out in front of him like the Olympic torch. “For God’s sake, watch it, Bauer!” The director got out of his way.
    “It won’t hurt you,” Reggie said. “It’s only lukewarm.”
    W HEN HOLMES HEADED for the reception room, the word passed, swift as telepathy, that Richard Garvy was about to arrive. Actors converged there from all directions. Even Reggie Bauer. Julie stayed where she was and sipped her coffee. When Garvy arrived, the director brought him through the Green Room on the way to his office at the back of the building. Garvy walked with the springiness of a big man who kept in shape. Like a politician, he shook hands with those who got up close, and his very blue eyes had the same sparkle that came across on television. Julie kept her feet out of the way.
    But Holmes stopped. “Here’s someone who wants to meet you, Dick. Julie Hayes is one of our people who’s gone over to newspapering. Very good, too—a column in the New York Daily .”
    She could not have asked for more. Garvy told her to call his secretary at the Plaza. Her name was Mary Tumulty.
    O NE THING IN FAVOR of Richard Garvy from the outset, so far as Julie was concerned: he was staying at the Plaza. The only reason she wanted to leave New York someday was so that she could come back and stay at the Plaza. She remembered as she went up in the elevator how, on her way to or from Dr. Callahan’s office, she had used to route herself so that she could stop at the Plaza to use the powder room. Days of idleness and dashed careers and playing at being in love with a husband who called her his little girl.
    Garvy came out to the elevator and met her himself. It was very good for her ego, never mind why he did it.
    The Plaza suite was exactly what she had expected, not a piece later than Edward VII, except Miss Tumulty’s electric typewriter and its stand. Just passing through. Miss Tumulty herself belonged. She was round-faced, made up softly and wore her hair in a braid that circled her head, a silver tiara. They had talked on the phone a couple of times. Neither was surprised at the other’s appearance.
    “You have such a nice voice,” Miss Tumulty said, “and I knew your eyes would be as big as saucers.”
    “I love your name,” Julie said. And she liked the pleasantness of the woman’s face.
    Garvy touched Julie’s arm, and they went on to a small sitting room. A crystal vase on the center table was crowded with anemones, an explosion of colors.
    “Oh, boy!” Julie cried.
    “The simple things in life, eh? They’re my wife’s favorite. How the management found out