forties. It didn't seem logical that he would feel any different at forty than he had at thirty-nine. He'd noticed no change between thirty-nine and sixteen; he was a healthy man.

But there were so many stories about the forties—and the fifties followed them so closely.

Now, the blonde was about to turn over. She had one hand, palm downward, on the blanket beneath her and—

And from the doorway, Ann Truesdale said, "Theodore Truesdale, you licentious old man. I never realized why you sat out—"

He turned to face his wife. His voice was a model of outraged innocence. "For heaven's sake, Ann—"

She sighed, staring at him. She was small and dark and well put together, and didn't look at all like a woman who could devote every conscious hour to the house. But she was.

"Ogling," she said.

"Oh, Ann—you'd think I was—" He shook his head.

"You are. Infidelity can be mental, I read somewhere."

"You read?"

"Don't be superior. I was looking up a recipe in Maitland's magazine, I think, and I saw the picture of this man staring, as you just were, and—"

"You've answered my question," he interrupted. "Ann, I love you."

"Well, that's a strange way to show it, I must say, just eating that divorcee with your eyes. You should have a job, something to do. You've too much energy to just sit around like this, Ted."

Ted sighed. At thirty-nine, he had retired. At sixteen, he'd thought he was the new Bellows, having facility with a brush and being no slouch with the horsehide. The St. Paul Saints had shattered the baseball dream, and Ted's own objective self appraisal had killed the Bellows hope.

He had turned to commercial art and had done extremely well from the start. At thirty-nine, he'd retired.

Now, he said, "I've been thinking of going to work."

"Painting again? Ted, really?"

"Not painting. I loathe painting. That's one reason I retired. Maybe I'll buy a cheap ball club."

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