Ted asked, "Who's a beautiful girl?"

The squirrel went over to nose the golf ball, again.

"I asked a question," Ted said.

The squirrel sat up, looking at the nutmeg tree. "Look, Mr. Truesdale, we've got to have a meeting of minds. You know who's a beautiful girl, and so do I. Good gosh, you've been sitting there, drooling, all morning. And now you're back for more." The bright black eyes turned Ted's way. "Don't be so conventional. That's what kept you from being a first rate artist."

Ted was silent.

"Do we do business? Or don't we?"

Ted said, "How can you talk without opening your mouth?"

"Talk? Squirrels can't talk, you fool."

"Well, how can you make yourself heard, then?"

"Do you have to pry, Truesdale? You're getting a break, as it is. Do you have to know everything?"

Ted looked at his hands, and at the nutmeg tree. And back at the squirrel. A thirty-nine year old retired artist, sitting in the sun and talking to himself. What a jerk he was getting to be.

"Okay, I've been wrong before." The squirrel started for the tree.

"Wait!" Ted almost shouted.

From below, the blonde glanced his way, and he realized his voice had carried that far.

The squirrel waited; the blonde went back to her book.

"What," Ted asked hesitantly, "did you mean about doing business?"

"You and the blonde. Don't tell me you wouldn't like to get to know her."

Ted squirmed in his chair. "I—well, she's certainly lovely."

"Sure. I'll go down and sound her out. I'll keep in touch, Truesdale."

The squirrel went down the hill and hopped on the low, red brick wall that bordered the patio. The blonde looked up from her reading.

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