"Then how about a lemon and bitters?"

While Mountclemens was out of the room, Qwilleran became aware of other details: a dictating machine on the desk; music drifting from behind an Oriental screen; two deep-cushioned lounge chairs facing each other in front of the fire, sharing a plump ottoman between them. He tried one of the chairs and was swallowed up in the cushions. Resting his head back and putting his feet on the ottoman, he experienced an unholy kind of comfort. He almost hoped Mountclemens would never return with the lemon and bitters.

"Is the music satisfactory?" asked the critic as he placed a tray at Qwilleran's elbow. "I find Debussy soothing at this time of day. Here is something salty to nibble with your drink. I see you have gravitated to the right chair."

"This chair is the next best thing to being unconscious," said Qwilleran. "What's it covered with? It reminds me of something they used to make boy's kneepants out of."

"Heather corduroy," said Mountclemens. "A miracle fabric not yet discovered by scientists. Their preoccupation with man- made materials amounts to blasphemy."

"I'm living in a hotel where everything is plastic. It makes an old flesh-and-blood character like me feel obsolete."

"As you can see by looking around you, I ignore modern technology."

"I'm surprised," said Qwilleran. "In your reviews you favor modem art, and yet everything here is — " He couldn't think of a word that sounded complimentary.

"I beg to correct you," said Mountclemens. He gestured grandly toward a pair of louvered doors. "In that closet is a small fortune in twentieth-century art — under ideal conditions of temperature and humidity. Those are my investments, but these paintings you see on the walls are my friends. I believe in the art of today as an expression of its time, but I choose to live with the mellowness of the past. For the same reason I am attempting to preserve this fine old house."

Mountclemens — sitting there in his velvet jacket, with Italian pumps on his long narrow feet and a dark red aperitif in his long white fingers — looked smug, sure, safe, and unreal. His nasal voice, the music, the comfortable chair, the warmth of the fire, and the dimness of the room were making Qwilleran drowsy. He needed action. "Mind if I smoke?" he said.

"Cigarettes in that cloisonn‚ box at your elbow."

"I use a pipe." Qwilleran searched for his quarter-bend bulldog and his tobacco pouch and his matches and commenced the ritual of lighting up.

As the flame from his match flared in the darkened room, he jerked his head to the side. He stared at the bookshelves. He saw a red light. It was like a signal. No, it was two red lights. Blazing red- and alive! Qwilleran gasped. The rush of breath extinguished the match, and the red signals disappeared.

"What was — that?" he said, when he stopped spluttering. "Something between the books. Something —»

"It was only the cat," said Mountclemens. "He likes to retire behind the books. The shelves are unusually deep because of my art books, and he can find a sanctum back there. Apparently he has had his afternoon nap behind the biographies. He seems to favor biographies."

"I never saw a cat with blazing red eyes," said Qwilleran.

"You will find that characteristic of Siamese cats. Shine a light in their eyes, and they turn ruby red. Ordinarily they are blue — like the blue in that Van Gogh. See for yourself when the cat decides to flatter us with his presence. For the moment he prefers seclusion. He is busy sensing you. Already he knows several things about you."

"What does he know?" Qwilleran squirmed in his chair.

"Having observed you, he knows you are unlikely to make any loud noises or sudden movements, and that is in your favor. So is your pipe. He likes pipes, and he knew that you smoked one, even before you extracted it from your pocket. He also realizes you are affiliated with a newspaper."

"How does he figure that?"

"Ink. He has quite a nose for printer's ink."

"Anything else?"

"At this moment he is flashing a message. He is telling me to serve the first course, or he will not get his own dinner until midnight."

Mountclemens left the room and returned with a tray of hot tarts.

"If you have no objection," he said, "we shall have the first course in the parlor. I have no servants, and you must forgive me if I employ a few informalities."

The crust was flaky; the filling was a tender custard ~ flecked with cheese and spinach. Qwilleran savored every mouthful.

"You may wonder," said the critic, "why I prefer to manage without servants. I have a morbid fear of robbery, and I want no strangers coming to the house and discovering the valuables I keep on the premises. Please be good enough not to mention my collection downtown."

"Certainly — if that's the way you feel."

"I know how you newspaper people function. You are purveyors of news by instinct and by habit."

"You mean we're a bunch of gossips," said Qwilleran amiably, enjoying the last forkful of cheese custard and wondering what would come next.

"Let us simply say that a great deal of information — correct and otherwise — is exchanged over the tables at the Press Club. Nevertheless, I feel I can trust you."

"Thank you."

" What a pity you don't drink wine. I had planned to celebrate this occasion by opening a bottle of Chateau Cas d'Estournel 45. It was a great vintage — very slow in maturing — even better than the 28's."

"Open it anyway," Qwilleran said. "I'll enjoy watching you enjoy it. Honestly!"

Mountclemens' eyes sparkled. "I need no further encouragement. And I shall pour you a glass of Catawba grape juice. I keep it in the house for — him."

"Who?"

"Kao K'o Kung."

Qwilleran's face went momentarily blank.

"The cat," said Mountclemens. "Forgive me for forgetting you have not been formally introduced. He is very fond of grape juice, especially the white. And nothing but the best brand. He is a connoisseur."

"He sounds like quite a cat," Qwilleran said.

"A remarkable creature. He has cultivated an appreciation for certain periods of art, and although I disagree with his choice, I admire his independence. He also reads newspaper headlines, as you will see when the late edition is delivered. And now I believe we are ready for the soup." The critic drew aside some dark red velvet curtains.

An aroma of lobster greeted Qwilleran in the dining alcove. Plates of soup, thick and creamy, were placed on a bare table that looked hundreds of years old. Thick candles burned in iron holders.

As he seated himself in a lavishly carved high-backed chair, he heard a thud in the living room. It was followed by throaty mutterings. A floorboard creaked, and a light-colored cat with a dark face and slanting eyes walked into the dining alcove.

"This is Kao K'o Kung," said Mountclemens. "He was named after the thirteenth-century artist, and he himself has the dignity and grace of Chinese art."

Kao K'o Kung stood motionless and looked at Qwilleran. Qwilleran looked at Kao K'o Kung. He saw a long, lean, muscular cat with sleek fur and an unbearable amount of assurance and authority.

Qwilleran said, "If he's thinking what I think he's thinking, I'd better leave." "He is only sensing you," said Mountclemens, "and he appears stem when he concentrates. He is sensing you with his eyes, ears, nose, and whiskers. His findings from all four avenues of investigation will be relayed to a central point for evaluation and synthesis, and — depending upon the verdict — he may or may not accept you."

"Thanks," said Qwilleran.

"He is somewhat of a hermit and suspicious of outsiders."

The cat took his time and, when he had finished looking at the visitor, calmly and without visible effort rose in vertical flight to the top of a tall cabinet.