"Ted," she said despairingly, "what's wrong with work?" She came over to take the deck chair next to his.

"Nothing," he said. "Unless it gets to be a disease. From the time I was sixteen until I was thirty-eight, I worked like three men. That's twenty-two years a man, and I've forty-four years of rest due me. If I'm alive, at eighty-three, I'll go back to work."

"Nobody," she said wearily, "can ever get any sense out of you." She looked down at the patio below. "Do you really think she's pretty, Ted?"

The blonde was now on her back.

"She has a fair figure. I haven't seen much of her face."

"I suppose," Ann said hesitantly, "I've failed you, somewhere."

"Well," Ted began.

But Ann rose hastily. "Heavens, I forgot I had soup on the stove." The screen door slammed behind her.

His eyes went to the blonde, moved away, came back.

"Dreams, that's all you've got!"

Ted looked at the doorway, but it was vacant. He looked down at the patio below, but the blonde was quiescent. Besides, the voice had been closer.

And there was nobody in view. There was one small, scrubby squirrel looking at him from the base of the nutmeg tree. Squirrels don't talk.

Through the screen, Ted heard dimly the movements of Ann in the kitchen, and below, the blonde had her eyes closed. Nobody, nobody, nobody....

He said, "What do you mean, dreams?" and watched the squirrel closely.

"Don't be stupid," the voice said. The squirrel hadn't opened its mouth.

Ted rose, and looked through the screen door, but Ann was still in the kitchen, her back to him. Down on her patio, the blonde didn't stir.

Ted said, "I'll be damned."

"You're all damned," the voice said, "damned by your loyalties. Clean living is killing you. But you can dream."

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