Qwilleran lost his partner shortly after, when a surly young man cut in. He was wearing a torn T-shirt and had the manners of a hoodlum. The face was familiar.

Later, back at the table, Sandy said, "That was Tom, our houseboy. He's supposed to be Stanley what's-his-name from that Tennessee Williams play, and his date is around here somewhere, dressed in a pink negligee. Tom is a boor, but Cal thinks he has talent, and so he's putting the kid through art school. Cal does a lot of wonderful things. You're going to write an article about him, aren't you?"

"If I can collect enough material," said Qwilleran. "He's difficult to interview. Perhaps you could help me."

"I'd love it. Did you know Cal is chairman of the State Council on Art? I think he wants to be the first professional artist to make the White House. He'll probably get there, too. He lets nothing stop him." She paused and became thoughtful. "You ought to write an article about the old man at the next table."

"Who's he?"

"They call him Uncle Waldo. He's a retired butcher who paints animals. He never held a paintbrush until he was sixty-nine."

"Where have I heard that before?" Qwilleran said.

"Oh, sure, every senior citizen wants to be a Grandma Moses, but Uncle Waldo is really talented — even if Georgie doesn't think so."

"Who's Georgie?"

"You know Georgie — your precious art critic."

"I haven't met the man yet. What's he like?"

"He's a real stinker, that's what he's like. When he re, viewed Uncle Waldo's one-man show, he was absolutely cruel."

"What did he say?"

"He said Uncle Waldo should go back to operating a meat market and leave the cows and bunny rabbits to kids, who draw them with more imagination and honesty. He said Uncle Waldo butchered more livestock on canvas than he ever did in the meat business. Everyone was furious! Lots of people wrote letters to the editor, but the poor old man took it hard and stopped painting. It was a crime! He used to paint very charming primitives. I understand his grandson, who's a truck driver, went to the newspaper office and threatened to beat up George Bonifield Mountclemens, and I don't blame him. Your critic is completely irresponsible."

"Has he ever reviewed your husband's work?" Qwilleran asked with his best expression of innocence.

Sandy shuddered. "He's written some vicious things about Cal — just because Cal is a commercial artist and successful. Mountclemens classifies commercial artists with house painters

and paperhangers. Actually Cal can draw better than any of those arty blotch, and, dribble kids who call themselves Abstract Expressionists. Not one of them could draw a glass of water!"

Sandy frowned and fell silent, and Qwilleran said, "You're prettier when you smile."

She obliged with a burst of laughter. "Look! Isn't that a panic? Cal is dancing with Mark Antony."

Qwilleran followed her pointing finger to the dance floor, where Cal Halapay in black Japanese kimono was guiding a husky Roman warrior through a slow fox-trot. The face under Antony's helmet was bold- featured but soft.

"That's Butchy Bolton," said Sandy. "She teaches sculpture at the art school — welded metal and all that sort of thing. She and her roommate came as Antony and Cleopatra. Isn't that a scream? Butchy welded her own armor. It looks like a couple of truck fenders."

Qwilleran said, "The paper should have sent a photographer: We should be getting pictures of all this."

Sandy did some acrobatics with her eyebrows and said, "Zoe Lambreth was supposed to handle publicity for the ball, but I guess she's only good at getting publicity for herself."

"I'm going to phone the picture desk," said Qwilleran, "and see if they'll send over a man."

Half an hour later, Odd Bunsen, who was working the one-to-eleven shift, arrived with a 35-mm. reflex camera hanging around his neck and the usual cigar between his teeth.

Qwilleran met him in the foyer and said, "Be sure to get a good shot of Cal and Sandra Halapay."

Odd said, "You're telling me? They love to get their noodles in the paper."

"Try to get everybody in pairs. They're dressed up as famous lovers — Othello and Desdemona, Lolita and Humbert Humbert, Adam and Eve —»

"Cr-r-azy!" said Odd Bunsen as he readied his camera. "How long do you have to hang around here, Jim?"

"Just long enough to see who wins the costume prizes and phone something in to the desk."

"Why don't you meet me at the Press Club for a night, cap? I can quit after I print these."

Back at the Halapay table, Sandy introduced Qwilleran to an impressive woman in a beaded evening dress. "Mrs. Duxbury," Sandy explained, "is the most important collector in the city. You should write an article about her collection. It's eighteenth-century English-Gainsborough and Reynolds, you know."

Mrs. Duxbury said, "I'm not anxious to have my collection publicized, Mr. Qwilleran, unless it will help you personally in your new position. Frankly, I am overjoyed to welcome you among us."

Qwilleran bowed. "Thank you. It's a completely new field for me."

"I trust your presence here means that the Daily Fluxion has at last come to its senses and dropped Mountclemens."

"No," said Qwilleran, "we're simply expanding our coverage. Mountclemens will continue to write critical reviews."

"What a pity. We were all hoping the newspaper would dismiss that horrid man."

A fanfare of trumpets from the stage announced the presentation of costume prizes, and Sandy said to Qwilleran, "I've got to collect Cal for the judging and the grand march. Are you sure you won't stay longer?"

"Sorry, I have to file my copy, but don't forget you're going to help me write a profile on your husband."

"I'll phone you and invite myself to lunch," said Sandy, giving the newsman an affectionate hug. "It will be fun."

Qwilleran moved to the back of the room and jotted down names as the winners were announced, and he was looking for a telephone when a woman's voice — soft and low — said, "Aren't you the new man from the Daily Fluxion?"

His moustache tingled. Women's voices sometimes affected him that way, and this voice was like caressing fingers.

"I'm Zoe Lambreth," she said, "and I'm afraid I failed miserably in my assignment. I was supposed to notify the newspapers about this ball, and it slipped my mind completely. I'm getting ready for a one-man show and working awfully hard — if you'll accept a lame excuse. I hope you're not being neglected. Are you getting all the information you need?"

"I think so. Mrs. Halapay has been looking after me."

"Yes, I noticed," Zoe said with a slight tightening of well-shaped lips.

"Mrs. Halapay was very helpful."

Zoe's eyebrows flickered. "I daresay."

"You're not in costume, Mrs. Lambreth."

"No. My husband didn't care to come tonight, and I just dropped in for a few minutes. I wish you would visit the Lambreth Gallery someday and meet my husband. Both of us would like to help you in any way we can."

"I'm going to need help. This is brand-new territory for me," Qwilleran said, and then slyly he added, "Mrs. Halapay has offered to supervise my art education."

"Oh, dear!" said Zoe with an intonation that suggested mild distress.

"Don't you approve?"

"Well… Sandra is not the most knowledgeable of authorities. Forgive me. Sooner or later you'll find out that artists are notorious cats." Zoe's large brown eyes were being disarmingly frank, and Qwilleran drowned in them momentarily. "But I'm really sincere in my concern for you, she went on. "I wouldn't want to see you — misdirected. Much of the work being produced today in the name of art is spurious at its worst and shoddy at its best. You should insist on knowing the credentials of your

advisers."

"What would you suggest?"