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which almost accounted for the incredible activity of the pituitaries. It continued to worry her, although she knew that she could hardly pretend to criticize Mel Warfield’s vast experience in the practice of hormone therapy.
    But somehow, somewhere deep inside, she did question something else in Mel. Impersonality had to go very closely with the unpredictable psychosomatic and physiological changes that occurred during gland treatments; and in Robin’s case, Peg doubted vaguely that Mel was able to be as detached as might be wished. She tried not to think about it, and was bothered by the effort of trying. And every time she felt able to laugh it off, she would remember Mel’s odd statement in the laboratory that day—but then, he had taken such a quick and warm liking to the boy. Could he possibly resent him on her behalf? Again she felt that resurgence of fury at Mel and at herself; and again she wished that she could be left alone; she wanted to laugh at herself in the role of
femme fatale
, but laughter was out of order.
    The progress reports were by no means the only source of information about Robin, however. In the tenth day of his treatment, she noticed an item in the “Man About Town” column in the
Daily Blazes
.
    Patrons of the Goose’s Neck were treated to a startling sight this AM when Vincent (The Duke) Voisier came tearing into the place, literally bowling over a table-full of customers—and their table—in the process of hauling Vic Hill, songwriter extraordinary, out to the curb. The center of attention out there semed to be a tousled-headed character by the name of Robin English, who told this snooper mildly that Mr. Voisier was going to produce his show. At that moment The Duke and Hill came sailing out of the bistro, scooped up this Robin English and hurled him into a taxicab, leaving your reporter in a cloud of carbon monoxide and wild surmise. Now followers of this column know that Brother Voisier is usually as excitable as the occupant of Slab 3 at the City Morgue. Myguess is missed if show business isn’t about to be shown some business. Voisier is a rich man because of his odd habit of taking no wild chances.…
    And then there was a letter from a book publisher tactfully asking for a character reference prior to giving one Robin English an advance on an anthology of poems. She answered immediately, giving Robin an A-1 rating, and only after sending it off did she realize that a few short weeks ago she would not have considered such a thing. Robin’s reliability was a strange and wonderful structure, and his record likewise.
    At long last, then, came his phone call.
    “Peg?”
    “Wh … oh, Robin! Robin, how are you?”
    “Sharp as a marshmallow, and disgustingly productive. Will you come over?”
    “Come over?” she asked stupidly. “Where?”
    “Robin’s Roost,” he chuckled. “My McGee hall closet and bath. Home.”
    “But Robin, I … you—”
    “Safe as a tomb,” he said solemnly.
    Something within her rose delightedly at the overtone of amusement in his voice.
    “I’m a big grown-up man now,” he said. “Restrained, mature, reliable and thoroughly unappetizing. Come over and I won’t be anything but repulsive. Impersonal. Detached. No … say semidetached. Like a brownstone front. A serious mien. Well, if it’s before dinner I’ll have a chow mein.”
    “Stop!” she gasped. “Robin, you’re mad! You’re delirious!”
    “Delirious and repressing, like a certain soft drink. Four o’clock suit you?”
    It so happened that it did not. “All right, Robin,” she said helplessly, and hung up.
    She discovered that she had cleared her afternoon so efficiently that she had time to go home and change. Well, of course she had to change. That princess neckline was—not daring, of course, but—toodemure. That was it; demure. She did not want to be demure. She wanted to be businesslike.
    So she changed to a navy sharkskin suit with a wide belt and a starched