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on hand when I carve, as in the old days in Budapest.” Everyone came running.
    The lamb was a great success: succulent, with a crisp crust redolent of garlic, herbs and pepper.
    Evening came, night. Mervyn, seeking Susie, found her by the rail staring out over the stencil of glowing cities. In silence he leaned on the rail beside her. She began to drum with her fingers. Presently she said, “I’m tired. Can we go home soon?”
    â€œAny time you like.… Oh, Oleg.”
    Malinski had materialized on Susie’s other side. He looked searchingly into her face. “You are troubled. Is it because of Mary?”
    â€œPartly.”
    â€œStrange indeed that she would not confide in you.”
    â€œIt’s not so strange. We had a quarrel. To be accurate, I quarreled. Mary just laughed at me.”
    â€œThat would be her way. Yes. I can form no picture of Mary losing her temper.”
    â€œNothing affects her that deeply.”
    Oleg held up his hand. “Certainly this is not true, Susie. For instance, she would never allow anyone to torment an animal.”
    â€œShe’d hit him with a brick. Several times.”
    â€œExactly,” said Oleg. “So you see, Mary is capable of emotion.”
    â€œOf a certain kind, I suppose. She’s frivolous, a born vamp. Because she’s man-crazy? Not at all. Because she’s never grown up. Flirting is a game with Mary. She feels nothing, and she doesn’t understand why the men do. It mystifies her—sometimes it frightens her; I’ve seen her terrified. Still, she goes on flirting. But she very seldom—practically never—allows herself to be alone with a man. Except one. He fascinates her, for the simplest reason in the world: he’s indifferent. Pays absolutely no attention to her. So Mary is piqued.”
    â€œYes,” sighed Oleg. “Of course.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have a thing to recommend him. He’s a raggle-taggle would-be poet, a scrounger. A jerk, really. But he’s the only man Mary has ever thought twice about.”
    â€œHis name is John?” asked Mervyn, who had been imitating a mouse.
    Susie nodded. “John Pilgrim.”

CHAPTER 3
    â€œI am not an original man,” said Oleg Malinski from the darkness, “and I concede the triteness of the emotion that overtakes me when I stand out here on a clear night. But looking over these millions of lights, these thousands of roofs, feeling this twinkle of motion—no more than a vibration, really—I can never avoid a sense of wonder at the sheer volume of human activity under my eyes. It is almost oppressive.” Malinski waved. “Look out there. As we watch, death is seizing scores of human beings. Marriages are being consummated. Babies are being born. Unhappy persons alone in their rooms contemplate suicide. Social gatherings are in progress, some of the most remarkable sort. In certain dark houses—perhaps there, or there—a criminal finds a terrified little girl who has heard his footsteps. Now! He is laying his hands on her shoulders! In other houses men and women stare stupidly at each other, or at the television. And in one of these houses—who knows?—maybe Mary talks with her mysterious John.”
    Susie stirred.
    There was a short silence.
    â€œHave you called home to Ventura?” Oleg asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut if she had perhaps prevailed upon ‘John’—whoever he may be—to drive her to Ventura, she would be at home now, and your worries would be at an end. Mervyn, is this not sensible?”
    â€œI should think so.”
    â€œBut I’m not worried,” said Susie evenly.
    â€œIn that case we will be gay! Come! Will you dance the czardas with me?”
    â€œI’m not very good at such things.”
    â€œIt is not necessary to be good. I am a man badly uncoordinated, yet I dance the czardas with enthusiasm.”
    â€œI don’t even