"May I come in?" Yvonne asked.
"Certainly."
"Your radio's positively shaking the building!"
"Turn it down. I hope you won't mind I'm in here--slightly naked."
"Oh!" I couldn't see her, or she, me. The rooms waited because she had
stopped. "_Slightly!_"
"Barely, if you prefer. Barely nude. Covered in a meager depth with
rusty water. Concealed in soapy murk, besides. And, in addition,
protected by scum. It's hard water, you know--Croton."
Presently the radio went down and out--a moron throttled in midspiel.
"I'll sit in here," she said.
"Any place you like."
"I'll bet! I'll bet if you heard me coming--you'd grab the shower
curtain--"
"Flowers for tonight?"
"You certainly have a long, mean memory, Philip Wylie! So that's just
what I do bet!" She was approaching. She exclaimed, "What do you
mean--soapsuds?"
"An invention for the Puritan mind. A burlesque. After all--!"
"After all--what?"
"In a better world--but skip it."
She did. "You certainly know how to upset people," she said.
"Now what?"
"After lunch--I phoned Gwen--to come over this evening."
"So?"
"And after that--I began to feel jittery."
"And now?"
"I came over here."
"To ask me how to feel? Ye Gods! I recommended having your own
feelings--and I thought you were catching on."
She was wearing a faintly rose-pink frock of some shiny, translucent
material. You could see the garments beneath--you were supposed to see.
There were two--and the lace hem of the lower one showed below the
blush of her dress--as it was supposed to show. She looked like a kid.
"I've got too many feelings at once." She walked toward the window,
where I could now see her only by leaning a little. "I almost called
Rol this afternoon."