Was she talking to the squirrel? Her lips were moving.

Then she rose, and went into the house. When she came out again, she put some nuts on the low brick wall. And went back to her reading.

Ted watched for signs of further dialogue, but there were none. The squirrel came up the hill, the nuts bulging its cheeks. It didn't even glance at Ted as it went up the trunk of the tree.

The sun moved behind a cloud and a faint breeze came up from the west. Ted felt drowsy, but he kept his eyes open, waiting for the reappearance of the squirrel.

Nothing happened. Occasionally, the blonde would turn a page, but that was all. Ted went in and mixed himself a drink. Then he put some records on the record player and sat near the huge empty fireplace in the living room.

Why wasn't he happy? Fine home, fine view, money in the bank, neat, pretty wife, no job to fret about, nothing to do but improve his mind.

Nuts, he told himself. Nothing to do but covet blondes, you mean. Don't give me that malarkey about improving your mind.

He rose, in protest, and picked out a volume of Spinoza from the shelves flanking the fireplace. He stayed with it for seven full minutes, and then mixed another drink.

At four-thirty, he was dozing in the leather chair in his study when Ann came in.

"You should see Dora's delphiniums," Ann said.

"Should I? How do you know I haven't?"

"Ted, you've been drinking." Her voice was not sharp, but soft, her attitude maternal.

"A little. I'd like some more. Why don't we go out to dinner, some place where we can dance?"

"Tonight? Have you forgotten the Drews are coming over?"

"I've been trying to. Couldn't you phone them?"

"Ted." She made two syllables out of it. She looked at him quietly. "Do they bore you terribly?"

"They do."

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