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him. The situation was full of erotic symbolism. When she realized the submissiveness implied by her position at his feet, she popped up again and saw that his smile had broadened.
     
     
    Flushed and flustered, Nora threw the damp towels into the wastecan under the sink.
     
     
    Art Streck said, “Cooking, needlepoint . . . yeah, I think that’s real nice, real nice. What other things do you like to do?”
     
     
    “That’s it, I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t have any unusual hobbies. I’m not a very interesting person. Low-key. Dull, even.”
     
     
    Damning herself for being unable to order the bastard out of her house, she slipped past him and went to the oven, ostensibly to check that it was finished preheating, but she was really just trying to get out of Streck’s reach.
     
     
    He followed her, staying close. “When I pulled up out front, I saw lots of flowers. You tend the flowers?”
     
     
    Staring at the oven dials, she said, “Yes . . . I like gardening.”
     
     
    “I approve of that,” he said, as if she ought to care whether he approved or not. “Flowers . . . that’s a good thing for a woman to have an interest in. Cooking, needlepoint, gardening—why, you’re just full of womanly interests and talents. I’ll bet you do everything well, Mrs. Devon. I mean everything a woman should do. I’ll bet you’re a first-rate woman in every department.”
     
     
    If he touches me, I’ll scream, she thought.
     
     
    However, the walls of the old house were thick, and the neighbors were some distance away. No one would hear her or come to her rescue.
     
     
    I’ll kick him, she thought. I’ll fight back.
     
     
    But, in fact, she was not sure that she would fight, was not sure that she had the gumption to fight. Even if she did attempt to defend herself, he was bigger and stronger than she was.
     
     
    “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re a first-rate woman in every department,” he repeated, delivering the line more provocatively than before.
     
     
    Turning from the oven, she forced a laugh. “My husband would be astonished to hear that. I’m not too bad at cakes, but I’ve still not learned to make a decent piecrust, and my pot roast always turns out bone-dry. My needlepoint’s not half bad, but it takes me forever to get anything done.” She slipped past him and returned to the counter. She was amazed to hear herself chattering on as she opened the box of icing mix. Desperation made her garrulous. “I’ve got a green thumb with flowers, but I’m not much of a housekeeper, and if my husband didn’t help out—why, this place would be a disaster.”
     
     
    She thought she sounded phony. She detected a note of hysteria in her voice that had to be evident to him. But the mention of a husband had obviously given Art Streck second thoughts about pushing her further. As Nora poured the mix into a bowl and measured out the required butter, Streck drank the water she had given him. He went to the sink and put the empty glass in the dishpan with the dirty bowls and utensils. This time he did not press unnecessarily close to her.
     
     
    “Well, I better get back to work,” he said.
     
     
    She gave him a calculatedly distracted smile, and nodded. She began to hum softly as she returned to her own task, as if untroubled.
     
     
    He crossed the kitchen and pushed open the swinging door, then stopped and said, “Your aunt really liked dark places, didn’t she? This kitchen would be swell, too, if you brightened it up.”
     
     
    Before she could respond, he went out, letting the door swing shut behind him.
     
     
    In spite of his unasked-for opinion of the kitchen decor, Streck seemed to have pulled in his horns, and Nora was pleased with herself. Using a few white lies about her nonexistent husband, delivered with admirable equanimity, she had handled him after all. That was not exactly the way a cat would have dealt with an aggressor, but it was not the timid, frightened