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anything.”
    “Of course the degree in itself isn’t,” Ainsley said, “it’s what it stands for. She should get organized.”
    When we were back at the apartment I thought of Len, and decided it wasn’t too late to call him. He was in, and after we’d exchanged greetings I told him I would love to see him.
    “Great,” he said, “when and where? Make it some place cool. I didn’t remember it was so bloody hot in the summers over here.”
    “Then you shouldn’t have come back,” I said, hinting that I knew why he had and giving him an opening.
    “It was safer,” he said with a touch of smugness. “Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.” He had acquired a slight English accent. “By the way, Clara tells me you’ve got a new roommate.”
    “She isn’t your type,” I said. Ainsley had gone into the living room and was sitting on the chesterfield with her back to me.
    “Oh, you mean too old, like you, eh?” My being too old was one of his jokes.
    I laughed. “Let’s say tomorrow night,” I said. It had suddenly struck me that Len would be a perfect distraction for Peter. “About eight-thirty at the Park Plaza. I’ll bring a friend along to meet you.”
    “Aha,” said Len, “this fellow Clara told me about. Not serious, are you?”
    “Oh no, not at all,” I said to reassure him.
    When I had hung up Ainsley said, “Was that Len Slank you were talking to?”
    I said yes.
    “What does he look like?” she asked casually.
    I couldn’t refuse to tell her. “Oh, sort of ordinary. I don’t think you’d find him attractive. He has blond curly hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Why?”
    “I just wondered.” She got up and went into the kitchen. “Want a drink?” she called.
    “No thanks,” I said, “but you could bring me a glass of water.” I moved into the living room and went to the window seat where there was a breeze.
    She came back in with a scotch on the rocks for herself and handed me my glass of water. Then she sat down on the floor. “Marian,” she said, “I have something I need to tell you.”
    Her voice was so serious that I was immediately worried. “What’s wrong?”
    “I’m going to have a baby,” she said quietly.
    I took a quick drink of water. I couldn’t imagine Ainsley making a miscalculation like that. “I don’t believe you.”
    She laughed. “Oh, I don’t mean I’m already pregnant. I mean I’m going to get pregnant.”
    I was relieved, but puzzled. “You mean you’re going to get married?” I asked, thinking of Trigger’s misfortune. I tried to guess which of them Ainsley could be interested in, without success; ever since I’d known her she had been decidedly anti-marriage.
    “I knew you’d say that,” she said with amused contempt. “No, I’m not going to get married. That’s what’s wrong with most children, they have too many parents. You can’t say the sort of household Clara and Joe are running is an ideal situation for a child. Think of how confused their mother-image and their father-image will be; they’re riddled with complexes already. And it’s mostly because of the father.”
    “But Joe is marvellous!” I cried. “He does just about everything for her! Where would Clara be without him?”
    “Precisely,” said Ainsley. “She would have to cope by herself. And she would cope, and their total upbringing would be much more consistent. The thing that ruins families these days is the husbands. Have you noticed she isn’t even breast-feeding the baby?”
    “But it’s got teeth,” I protested. “Most people wean them when they get teeth.”
    “Nonsense,” Ainsley said darkly, “I bet Joe put her up to it. In South America they breast-feed them much longer than that. North American men hate watching the basic mother-child unit functioning naturally, it makes them feel not needed. This way Joe can give it the bottle just as easily. Any woman left to her own devices would automatically breast-feed as long as possible: