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quietly on the bottom like a pair of strange aquatic animals. When they were thoroughly chilled and began to crawl about, he lifted them out and hid them in a towel.
    He was cold. He ran hot water into the tub and began to undress, fumbling with the buttons of his clothing as though he were undressing a stranger. He was naked before the tub was full enough to get in and he sat down on a stool to wait. He kept his enormous hands folded quietly on his belly. Although absolutely still, they seemed curbed rather than resting.
    Except for his hands, which belonged on a piece of monumental sculpture, and his small head, he was well proportioned. His muscles were large and round and he had a full, heavy chest. Yet there was something wrong. For all his size and shape, he looked neither strong nor fertile. He was like one of Picasso's great sterile athletes, who brood hopelessly on pink sand, staring at veined marble waves.
    When the tub was full, he got in and sank down in the hot water. He grunted his comfort. But in another moment he would begin to remember, in just another moment. He tried to fool his memory by overwhelming it with tears and brought up the sobs that were always lurking uneasily in his chest. He cried softly at first, then harder. The sound he made was like that of a dog lapping gruel. He concentrated on how miserable and lonely he was, but it didn't work. The thing he was trying so desperately to avoid kept crowding into his mind.
    One day when he was working in the hotel, a guest called Romola Martin had spoken to him in the elevator.
    "Mr. Simpson, you're Mr. Simpson, the bookkeeper?"
    "Yes."
    "I'm in six-eleven."
    She was small and childlike, with a quick, nervous manner. In her arms she coddled a package which obviously contained a square gin bottle.
    "Yes," said Homer again, working against his natural instinct to be friendly. He knew that Miss Martin owed several weeks' rent and had heard the room clerk say she was a drunkard.
    "Oh!..." the girl went on coquettishly, making obvious their difference in size, "I'm sorry you're worried about your bill, I..."
    The intimacy of her tone embarrassed Homer.
    "You'll have to speak to the manager," he rapped out, turning away.
    He was trembling when he reached his office.
    How bold the creature was! She was drunk, of course, but not so drunk that she didn't know what she was doing. He hurriedly labeled his excitement disgust.
    Soon afterwards the manager called and asked him to bring in Miss Martin's credit card. When he went into the manager's office, he found Miss Carlisle, the room clerk there. Homer listened to what the manager was saying to her.
    "You roomed six-eleven?"
    "I did, yes, sir."
    "Why? She's obvious enough, isn't she?"
    "Not when she's sober."
    "Never mind that. We don't want her kind in this hotel."
    "I'm sorry."
    The manager turned to Homer and took the credit card he was holding.
    "She owes thirty-one dollars," Homer said.
    "She'll have to pay up and get out. I don't want her kind around here." He smiled. "Especially when they run up bills. Get her on the phone for me."
    Homer asked the telephone operator for six-eleven and after a short time was told that the room didn't answer. "She's in the house," he said. "I saw her in the elevator."
    "I'll have the housekeeper look."
    Homer was working on his books some minutes later when his phone rang. It was the manager again. He said that six-eleven had been reported in by the housekeeper and asked Homer to take her a bill.
    "Tell her to pay up or get out," he said.
    His first thought was to ask that Miss Carlisle be sent because he was busy, but he didn't dare to suggest it. While making out the bill, he began to realize how excited he was. It was terrifying. Little waves of sensation moved along his nerves and the base of his tongue tingled.
    When he got off at the sixth floor, he felt almost gay.
    His step was buoyant and he had completely forgotten his troublesome hands. He stopped at six-eleven and