rivalry it had been inconsequential and confined to small envy on Pen's side, envy of his older brother and not a lack of assurance of his position in the school community. Some day, when they were older, when they could look back on their lives and their relationship calmly, George would question Pen about that. It was quite possible that Pen was so stupid that he would be unable to recall his boyhood emotions, but it would be worth a try. Pen was stupid; gentlemen often were. George returned to the office to pick up his suitcase. Neither Pen nor Marian Strademyer was back from lunch, and he left word with the girl at the switchboard that he was on his way to the Carstairs. He took a taxi uptown, checked in at the hotel, and took a long, hot bath. "To pretty myself for Miss Strademyer," he muttered. "I'm sure she intends to do the same for me." At four o'clock he telephoned her at the office. "Are you at your own desk?" he said. "Yes I am," she said. "Good, then you won't be overheard. Shall we say six o'clock at your apartment?" "Make it half past," she said. "Seven, if you'd rather." "That would be better. I've had trouble getting out of my previous engagement." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "I'll tell you all about it," she said. "Don't let it upset you. I'll see you at seven," said George. Trouble getting out of her previous engagement, hence her and Pen's late return from lunch. George wondered where they went for lunch when they lunched together. But the city was so full of speakeasies that they could be a fifteen minute taxi ride away from a Chelsea meeting-place and avoid acquaintances from the financial district. With almost three hours to kill, George dressed slowly and walked to the Racquet Club. He watched, then played in, several games of bottle pool with some men who always seemed to be there. He had one light Scotch and water, which he nursed along until it was time to leave and at five past seven he mounted the steps of the Murray Hill house in which Marian Strademyer had her apartment. She took the chain latch off the door and let him in. She had changed from her nun's habit to a print dress. "You've done things to this place since I was here last," said George. "Yes, I have, and it's done things to me, too," she said. "What kind of things?" he said. "Very bad things," she said. "Made me realize what fun it would be to spend a lot of money. A lot." "Nobody could hold that against you," said George. "I've seldom enjoyed anything as much as building my house. Not that I'd ever want to do that again, but it was an experience worth having." "Will you have a cocktail, or what?" "Have you had anything?" "Yes, I had a Martini." "Then that's what I'll have. Are there any left?" "Oh, my yes. I only had one. That's all I had time for," she said. "The shaker's practically full." They filled their glasses and sat down in facing chairs in front of the fireplace. "The phone is going to start ringing any minute and I'm not going to pay any attention to it," she said. "Leave it off the hook," he said. "No, I want him to think I'm out," she said. "If I take it off the hook the operator will report that it's off, and he'll know I'm here. Also, he might ask her to turn the howler on. He's very angry with me." "He's in a difficult frame of mind," said George. "Well, the hell with him. What were you going to tell me?" "The real reason why I came to New York? Finish your drink and have another." "Is it that bad?" "I don't think there's anything bad about it, but on three Martinis you'll be more understanding." "All right," she said. She refilled her glass and his, and drank hers quickly. "Okay. I'm ready. How about you?" "Of course," he said, and held up his glass. "Now I'm full of understanding," she said. "Well, late yesterday afternoon I was sitting in my study and I became conscious of the fact that I had the God-damnedest erection I've had in I don't know how long. It was there, that's all." "Where was your wife?" said Marian. "In the house, but this had nothing to do with her." "But she might have appreciated it." "It was not for her. At first I didn't know who it was for." "If you had said it was for me, I'd have called you a liar," she said. "Wait a minute before you call me a liar. I'm trying to be as truthful as possible. This wasn't for anybody, you or my wife or anyone else. But when I began to think about what I wanted to do about it, then I thought of you. You've heard the old story about Lord Droolingtool and the butler? 'Your Lordship has a big one today, shall I send for her Ladyship?' and Droolingtool replies, 'To hell with the old bag, I'm taking this up to London! " "You told me that story," she said. "Well, this isn't London, but here I am." "You're a son of a bitch. When I think of how different you are than your brother. He loves me, but all I am to you is part of a risqué story." "Not all, Marian. I am, as you said, a very different person from my brother, and the proof of it is that I told you the story. Or retold it. I've been accused before of not being romantic, but I show you a great deal more respect by being completely candid. You and I are very much alike, you know." "Do you think so?" "Yes, I do. Will you be as truthful with me?" "I don't know," she said. "This morning you were in my office, we chatted a few minutes and then you started to leave." "Yes." "You hesitated," he said. "Did I?" "You don't remember that?" "I just remember feeling that you were looking at me. Staring at me, in fact. Almost as if you were making a pass at me." "I've been making a pass at you for the last twenty-five hours." "I've been making one at you for the last - nine, I guess it is." "What if that telephone starts ringing?" "I'll close the bedroom door. We'll hear it, but it won't be as loud." "We may not even hear it," he said. They stood up simultaneously and he held her in his arms and kissed her mouth. "I don't know whether it's the Martinis, but I don't know why we're standing here with our clothes on. Do you?" "No," he said. "Especially with the present you brought me all the way from Pennsylvania. You bastard, George Lockwood. I ought to hate you. I do, too." "I know you do," he said. She put her hand between his legs. "My present," she said. "Come on, let's open my present." They were undressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when the telephone began to ring. "There he is," she said. "He picked a bad time." "Pay no attention to it." "But I will pay attention to it. I almost forgot about him, and now I want to do all the things he never wants to do. Oh, such a nice present, George, and all for me. Will you give me another on my birthday?" "Or Christmas. Whichever comes first." "Don't you," she said. "By this time he would have, but don't you. The Lockwood Brothers. You ought to make me a member of the firm. The silent partner. Oh, but I'm not going to be silent anymore. George! Oh, you bastard. Oh, you wonderful bastard!" "You bitch!" "Say it again." "You bitch in heat. You whore." Once again the telephone began its ringing, but now they lay quiet and listened to it, her head resting on his arm, his hand gently pressing her breast. "What does he want?" said George. "Oh, Christ, I don't know what he wants, and neither does he." "What did you tell him?" "I told him I wanted to be alone tonight." "Is he here every afternoon?" "Just about." "Has he got a key?" "Oh, sure. Sometimes he's here before I am. We don't always screw. Sometimes we don't even talk very much. He just wants to be here. Some days he has to leave as soon as I get here. I told him once that he was queer for the furniture." "Is he queer?" "The only way he's queer is by not being queer at all. Everybody does something, but not him. That's one thing that would make me a little afraid to marry him. I want the money, and not having to work for a living. But if he ever found out I had another man, he could be mean. He's terribly jealous." "He is?" "His kind are. He knows I've done everything. I've told him, trying to get him to relax more. But he's the one that's changing me. But then every once in a while I have to do it with somebody like you. You were right, you know. This morning in your office I got the shivers. If you'd come near me I'd have done anything you said, right then and there and I wouldn't have cared who was watching." "I take it you have somebody like me." "He's not like you, but he's not like Penrose. He's an actor and he lives around the corner on 37th Street. Oh, God, once he got out of here just in time. He and Penrose passed each other on the stairs, one Sunday afternoon. He was here all Saturday night and Sunday morning, and Penrose was supposed to drop in around four o'clock, but he got here around two. That's when I found out how jealous he could be. All I can say is, it's a good thing he didn't get here Sunday morning. There were four of us. Daisy chain. Everything. All Saturday night and Sunday morning. About once a year I have to let go, all my inhibitions. I wish you could stay all night, but he's going to keep on telephoning, and if I don't answer it by ten o'clock, he's just liable to show up, and that wouldn't be so good. He's sore at you, he won't tell me why, and I guess you won't either, but right now you're in his bad books. I'll cook you some dinner, then you'll have to leave. You could come back, though. Say around midnight, and stay. Even if he came here at ten o'clock, he never stays all night. He's being very careful about his wife. She has some pansy boy friend that tells her what to do, and Penrose doesn't want them to get anything on him." "Suppose I leave now and you phone me at the hotel, say twelve o'clock." "That might be safer. There's really no telling what he'll do, and I'd better get something to eat or I might just fall asleep and not hear the phone. Yes, you go now and I'll phone you as soon after ten as I can. You're at the Carstairs, as usual." She was a bit shaky from the Martinis as she put on a negligee, and when he was leaving she took his hand and led it over her body. "That's so you'll come back, with another present for me. I wish you didn't have to leave, but this makes more sense. And you know me, I'm a sensible girl." They were the last words he was to hear from her lips. She kissed him, and gently pushed him through the door, and he heard the chain lock being replaced. He had dinner in his room at the Carstairs after a bath and a change into pajamas and dressing-gown. He fell asleep on the counterpane while trying to give his attention to a novel called Arrowsmith, by the author of Main Street and Babbitt, books which he had rather liked. He awoke with a stiff neck, saw by his watch that it was five past eleven, and got up and washed his face. He ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and wondered how long he would have to wait for Marian Strademyer's call. The soreness in his neck disappeared as he moved about and his blood circulated more freely, and he found that the nap had refreshed him. Immediate desire for the pleasures that might await him with Marian was in the form of curiosity. In her mood, and in his, extreme vigor would not be essential. As he sipped his coffee and became wider awake he permitted himself only vague anticipation of the plans she had been making for the remainder of the night. On the other hand, he was willing to consider in some detail the position she might occupy in his future. He would remove her from the office and from the life of his brother, but he felt he could persuade her to become his own mistress. With Geraldine as his wife he had a definite need of a mistress; and since he had been given such a candid look at Marian's life, an understanding based on money and mutual tolerance would surely be acceptable to her. Pen's mistake with Marian was in making demands that were unreasonable when love was one-sided. Between Marian and George love was not present. Love? George Lockwood wondered if he had ever loved anyone but Eulalie Fenstermacher. Preposterous name. But had anyone else ever loved him? "I must be getting old," he muttered. An amusing thought after his performance earlier in the evening and his readiness for what was to come. Aging, yes, but not old. The Lockwood men did not get old that way; he recalled the scene that had been witnessed by Agnes when his father was visited by Mrs. Downs. Men who drank too much, who did not take proper care of themselves, lost their powers and got old at fifty. George was proud of his father. "Think of the old rascal," he muttered. And almost the best part of it was that Mrs. Downs would still want to do that to him. Mrs. Downs must have been quite a woman herself. The night sounds of midtown East Side New York had changed, and the clock in the wall and his watch agreed that midnight had passed. Any minute now she would telephone. He put on his shoes and socks and his underwear, laid out his shirt and necktie. A delicate relationship between him and the silent telephone had come into being. He could almost see her voice coming out of the mouthpiece, although in actuality the sound of her voice would come out of the receiver. Exactly what would she say? Would she be terse and eager, languidly humorous, or very angry at Pen for delaying her? There was now no doubt that Pen had gone to her apartment, little doubt that he had made a scene. "The scene may very well have been dramatic and messy, with things said that were bound to have unpleasant consequences. George was thinking of the scene in the past tense, but it very well might still be going on. The only thing he could not do was telephone her and make matters worse. Why did a man like Pen get himself into such situations? The reading matter in the room consisted of the Gideon Bible and the Sinclair Lewis novel, and George Lockwood was not interested in the words of the prophets or in medical intrigue. He grew unreasonably angry at the Carstairs breakfast menu, which only served to remind him that he expected to have breakfast in an apartment on Murray Hill, prepared by a voluptuous young woman who wanted to please him. And then the damned thing rang. He lifted the receiver and took a deep breath so as not to show his impatience. "Hello?" he said. "George! Oh, thank goodness you're there." The voice was Geraldine's. "Of course I'm here. Why are you calling me at this hour?" "You haven't heard. I was sure you hadn't. Oh, George, a terrible, terrible thing has happened. A terrible thing. It's Pen, your brother Pen and some woman in your office." "Make sense, woman, for God's sake." "I'm trying to," she said. "Pen killed her, shot her with a pistol and then killed himself. Your nice brother. It's so awful, George, and I'm here alone." "Where did you hear this?" "From Wilma. Wilma phoned you here about, about fifteen minutes ago. The police are there and you've got to go to her. What shall I do? Shall I have Andrew drive me to