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nevertheless said with control, “you might be interested to know that I’m not standing in the way of your friendship with Winona. I gave her that assurance, and I believe she’s now working on her decision.”
    Grace breathed quickly. “That’s just the point, Carl. Let’s talk turkey: if Win moves in with me, where does that leave you? You told me you haven’t had a business in some years, or a job.”
    It was really majestic of him still not to lose his balance: perhaps the years had seasoned him. Apparently he had made these confessions to Grace on their two dates, and why not? He had trusted her to make the right interpretation: that only now, at long last, could he claim to be successful in life, now that he had withdrawn from the hurly-burly to make a home for his daughter. Was he not indeed an exemplification of the new kind of man made possible by the liberation of women? He had told his story in pride!
    “By your account I sound suspiciously like a bum,” he said, with more wryness than reproach. “There are still some women who call themselves housewives, or rather the more honorific-sounding ‘homemaker,’ and I’m sure they would insist that what we do is self-respecting, gratifying, and all the rest. True, it’s not the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge or a part of the aerospace program, but—”
    “Come on, Carl,” said Grace, jollying him in a coarse fashion, “self-pity’s not your game, old boy!”
    What a grating woman! Why could not Winona have chosen...? But at fifty-four he should be done with asking questions of Fate, whose answers were always implicit in the status quo.
    “The fact is that for many years it was my only game,” said he, “but you’re right about the ‘old boy.’”
    Grace said: “You’re jumping the gun by a long shot in this day and age. But I didn’t want to talk about dreary matters, believe me! Everything’s going to work out beautifully. Now here’s my proposition.” In a supreme effort towards charm, which with men anyway would not seem to be easily available to her, Grace said: “And if you don’t take it, I’ll spit in your eye.” Trouble was, she sounded as if she well might.
    “You may fire when ready, Gridley,” said Reinhart, reverting to a time even before his own for this quotation, a favorite of his father’s, who however always corrupted it in one way or another and sometimes combined it with “the whites of their eyes.”
    “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,” said Grace, “the existing gourmet shelves in your typical supermarket don’t get much traffic, and in fact in some stores are downright seedy-looking. Also they’re usually poked away in some remote corner, where they’re an easy prey to shoplifters. Products not swiped are there for months. And this in the face of the greater-than-ever interest in the aforementioned gourmet cooking. Why?”
    At this talk of food Reinhart forgot his resentment. In fact he had something ardent by way of an answer. “Yes, I have noticed that, Grace. And I’ll tell you why that department is usually neglected by the public: it usually offers an eccentric choice of products, which are furthermore, some of them, not at all serious: things like cocktail franks and those dreary Japanese smoked oysters.”
    “No,” Grace stated firmly, “you’re wrong, Carl. The reason these things don’t move—and they are fine products, don’t knock them!—the simple reason is that the public is not aware of their use.”
    “That’s not true at all,” said Reinhart. With anyone else he would have felt he was being rude, but obviously Grace was immune. “A lot of that stuff is absolute crap! Why buy ready-made sauces, like hollandaise and béarnaise, when they’re inferior yet expensive as hell, and when furthermore they’re quite easy to prepare from fresh materials? And don’t tell me nobody knows about the gourmet shelf, with its lousy liver pâté and orange caviar and