Arch said, "I agree this isn't going to make the kind of story the boss wants. It sounds like The Arabian Nights."

"Do we have to run a story?"

"You saw the color of the memo. Pink!"

Qwilleran massaged his moustache.

After a while he said, "The only time I got a direct answer to a question was when I mentioned George Bonifield Mountclemens."

Arch put down his drink. "What did Halapay say?"

"He exploded — in a controlled sort of way. Basically, he says Mountclemens isn't qualified to judge art."

"That figures. Halapay had a one-man show about a year ago, and our critic roasted him alive. The readers loved it. It cheered their black hearts to know that a successful moneyman could be a failure at something. But it was a bitter blow to Halapay. He discovered his money could buy anything but a good art review."

"I weep for him. What about the other newspaper? Did they criticize his work, too?"

"They don't have a critic. Just a nice old lady reporter who covers the art openings and gushes about everything. They play it safe."

Qwilleran said, "So Halapay's a bad sport!"

"Yes, and you don't know how bad," said Arch, pulling his barstool closer to Qwilleran's. "Ever since that episode, he's been trying to bankrupt the Flux. He's withdrawn a lot of advertising linage and switched it over to the other paper. That hurts! Especially since he controls most of the food and fashion advertising in town. He's even trying to turn other admen against the Flux. It's serious."

Qwilleran grimaced in disbelief. "And I'm supposed to write a story buttering up that skunk, so the advertising department can get the linage back again?"

"Frankly, it would help. It would take the heat off."

"I don't like it."

"Don't go fastidious on me," Arch pleaded. "Just write a folksy piece about an interesting guy who wears old clothes around the house, takes his shoes off, keeps cats and dogs, eats weiners for lunch. You know how to do it."

"I don't like it."

"I'm not asking you to lie. Just be selective, that's all. Skip the part about the glass icicles and the half- million, dollar lake and the visits in South America, and bear down on the turkey farm and his lovely wife and the adorable kiddies."

Qwilleran brooded over it. "I suppose that's called practical newspapering."

"It helps pay the bills."

"I don't like it," said Qwilleran, "but if you're in that bad of a bind, I'll see what I can do." He raised his tomato juice glass. "Halapay or hell,to pay!"

"Don't be cute. I've had a hard day."

"I'd like to read some of Mountclemens' reviews. Have you got them around?"

"On file in the library," Arch said.

"I want to see what he wrote about an artist named Zoe Lambreth. Halapay hinted at a shady connection between Mrs. Lambreth and Mountclemens. Know anything about that?"

"I just process his copy. I don't peek under his window shades," said Arch, and he gave Qwilleran a good-night slap on the back.

Qwilleran, wearing the newer and darker of his two suits, went alone to the Valentine Ball at the art club, which — he discovered — was called the Turp and Chisel. The club had originated forty years before in the back room of a blind pig. Now it occupied the top floor of the best hotel; its membership was large and fashionable; and the impecunious Bohemians who had founded the fraternity had become old, staid, and full of dollars.

Upon his arrival at the ball, Qwilleran was able to wander unrecognized about the premises of the Turp and Chisel. He found a sumptuous lounge, a dining room, and a very busy bar. The games room, paneled with old barn, wood, offered everything from darts to dominoes. In the ballroom, tables were draped with red and white cloths, and an orchestra played innocuous tunes.

He asked for the Halapay table and was greeted by Sandra Halapay wearing a white kimono of stiff embroidered silk. Exaggerated makeup made her almond eyes even more exotic.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," she said, holding his hand long after the handshake had ended and delighting him with a rippling laugh.

"The invitation was irresistible, Mrs. Halapay," said Qwilleran. Then he surprised himself by bending over her hand and brushing it with his moustache.

"Please call me Sandy," she said. "Did you come alone? To a Lovers' Ball?"

"Yes. I represent Narcissus."

Sandy trilled with merriment. "You newspaper people are so clever!"

She was lyrically tall and lovely, Qwilleran decided, and tonight she was charmingly relaxed as wives often are when their husbands are absent.

"Cal is chairman of the ball," she said, "and he's flitting around, so you can be my date."

Her eyes were roguish as well as exotic.

Then Sandy, changing to a formal tone that rang hollow, introduced the others who were seated at the table. They were members of Cal's committee, she explained pointedly. A Mr. and Mrs. Riggs or Biggs were in French period costume. A short fleshy couple named Buchwalter, who seemed to be having a dull time, were garbed as peasants. There was also Mae Sisler, art reporter from the other newspaper.

Qwilleran gave her a fraternal bow, at the same time estimating that she was ten years past retirement age.

Mae Sisler gave him a bony hand and said in a thin voice, "Your Mr. Mountclemens is a very naughty boy, but you look like a nice young man."

"Thank you," said Qwilleran. "No one has called me a young man for twenty years."

"You'll like your new job," she

predicted. "You'll meet lovely people."

Sandy leaned close to Qwilleran and said, "You look so romantic in that moustache. I wanted Cal to grow one so he would look halfway grown-up, but he resisted the suggestion. He looks like such an infant. Don't you think so?" She laughed musically.

Qwilleran said, "It's true he appears youthful."

"I think he's retarded somehow. In another few years people will think he's my son. Won't that be crushing?" Sandy gave Qwilleran an adoring look. "Are you going to ask me to dance? Cal is a terrible dancer. He thinks he's a killer, but he's really a clod on the dance floor."

"Can you dance in that costume?"

Sandy's stiff white kimono was bound about the middle with a wide black obi. More white silk was draped over her straight dark hair.

"Oh, sure." She squeezed Qwilleran's arm as they walked to the dance floor. "Do you know what my costume represents?"

Qwilleran said no.

"Cal's in a black kimono. We're the Young Lovers in a Snowy Landscape."

"Who are they?"

"Oh, you know. The famous print — by Harunobu."

"Sorry. I'm a dunce when it comes to art." Qwilleran felt he could be debonair about the admission because, at that moment, he was leading Sandy expertly through a fox-trot enhanced by a few Qwilleran flourishes.

"You're a fun dancer," she said. "It takes real coordination to fox-trot to a cha-cha. But we must do something about your art education. Would you like me to tutor you?"

"I don't know if I could afford you — on my salary," he said, and Sandy's laughter could be heard above the orchestra. "How about the little lady from the other news, paper? Is she an art expert?"

"Her husband was a camouflage artist in World War I," said Sandy. "I guess that makes her an expert."

"And who are the rest of the people at your table?"

"Riggs is a sculptor. He does stringy, emaciated things that are shown at the Lambreth Gallery. They look like grasshoppers. So does Riggs, when you come to think of it. The other couple, the Buchwalters, are supposed to be Picasso's famous pair of lovers. You can't tell they're in costume. They always dress like peasants." Sandy turned up her nicely tilted nose. "I can't stand her. She thinks she's such an egghead. Her husband teaches art at Penniman School, and he's having a one-man show at the Westside Gallery. He's a vegetable, but he does lovely watercolors." Then she frowned. "I hope newspapermen aren't eggheads. When Cal told me to — Oh, well, never mind. I talk too much. Let's just dance."