"Come and visit the Lambreth Gallery," she urged, and her eyes echoed the invitation.

Qwilleran pulled in his waistline and entertained the idea of losing a few pounds — beginning tomorrow. Then he made another attempt to find a telephone.

The grand march was over, and the guests were circulating. Word had spread about the club that the Daily Fluxion's new reporter was attending the party and that he was easily recognized by his prominent moustache. Consequently, numerous strangers approached Qwilleran and introduced themselves. Each one wished him well and followed with something uncomplimentary about George Bonifield Mountclemens. Those who were art dealers added brief commercials for their galleries; artists mentioned their forthcoming exhibitions; the laymen invited Qwilleran to come and see their private collections — anytime — and to bring a photographer if he wished.

Among those who hailed.the newsman was Cal Halapay. "Come out to the house for dinner some evening," he said. "Bring the whole family."

Now the drinking commenced in earnest, and the party grew boisterous. The greatest commotion could be heard in the games room, and Qwilleran followed the crowd in that direction. He found the room packed with laughing guests, standing rib to rib with barely enough room to raise a highball glass, and the center of attention 'was Mark Antony. She was standing on a chair. Without a helmet, Mark Antony was more nearly a woman — pudgy,faced, with a short haircut set in tight waves.

"Step right up, folks," she was barking. "Try your skill!"

Qwilleran squeezed into the room. The crowd, he discovered, was focusing its attention on a game of darts. Players were trying their aim at a life-size sketch of a man, chalked on the barn wood wall with all features of the anatomy explicitly delineated.

"Step right up, folks," the woman warrior was chanting. "Doesn't cost a cent. One chance apiece. Who wants to play Kill the Critic?"

Qwilleran decided he had had enough. His moustache was feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He made a discreet exit, telephoned his story to the paper, and then joined Odd Bunsen at the Press Club.

"Mountclemens must be a pill," he said to the photographer. "Do you read his column?"

"Who reads?" said Odd. "I just look at the pictures and check my credit line."

"He seems to cause a lot of trouble. Do you know anything about the situation at the art museum?"

"I know they've got a cute chick in the checkroom," Odd said, "and some cr-r- razy nudes on the second floor."

"Interesting, but that's not what I mean. The museum just lost a million- dollar grant from some foundation, and the director was fired as a result. That's what I heard at the party tonight, and they say the whole ruckus was caused by the Daily Fluxion's critic."

"I wouldn't doubt it. He's always raising hell in the Photo Lab. He phones in and tells us what he wants photographed for his column. Then we have to go to the galleries to make the pix. You should see the garbage he expects us to photograph! Last week I went back to the Lambreth Gallery twice, and I still couldn't get a shot worth printing."

"How come?"

"The painting was black and navy blue, for Pete's sake! My print looked like a coal bin on a dark night, and the boss thought it was my fault. Old Monty's always beefing about our photographs. If I ever get a chance, I'd like to bust a speed graphic over his skull."

Sunday morning Qwilleran picked up a copy of the. Fluxion at the hotel newsstand. He was living at an old, inexpensive hotel that had replaced its worn rugs and faded velvets with plastic floors and plastic-covered arm-chairs. In the coffee shop a countergirl in a plastic apron served his scrambled eggs on a cold plastic plate, and Qwilleran

opened his newspaper to the art page.

George Bonifield Mountclemens III was reviewing the work of Franz Buchwalter. Qwilleran remembered the name. Buchwalter was the quiet man at the Halapay table — the husband of the social worker — the vegetable who painted lovely watercolors, in Sandy Halapay's estimation.

Two of the man's paintings had been photographed to illustrate the review, and Qwilleran thought they looked pretty good. They were sailboats. He had always liked sailboats. He began to read:

Any gallery-goer who entertains an appreciation for fine craftsmanship must not miss Franz Buchwalter's one-man show at the Westside Gallery this month [wrote Mountclemens]. The artist, who is a watercolorist and instructor at Penniman School of Fine Art, has elected to exhibit an outstanding collection of picture frames. It is obvious even to the untrained eye that the artist has been working diligently at his framing in the last year. The moldings are well-joined and the comers meticulously mitered.

The collection is also distinguished by its variety. There are wide moldings, narrow moldings, and medium-size moldings, finished in gold leaf, silver leaf, walnut, cherry and ebony, as well as a murky wash intended to be that fashionable counterfeit known as antique white.

One of the best frames in the show is a wormy chestnut. It is difficult for an observer to determine — without actually inserting a darning needle in the holes — whether this was manufactured by worms in North Carolina or by electric drills in Kansas City. However, a picture-framer of Buchwalter's integrity would be unlikely to use inferior materials, and this critic rather feels that it is genuine wormy chestnut.

The exhibition is well hung. And special praise must be given to the matting, the textures and tones of which are selected with taste and imagination. The artist has filled his remarkable picture frames with sailboats and other subjects that do not detract from the excellence of the moldings.

Qwilleran looked at the illustrations again, and his moustache made small mute protests. The sailboats were pleasant- very pleasant indeed.

He gathered up his newspaper and left. He was about to try something he had not done since the age of eleven, and at that time he had been under duress. In short, he spent the afternoon at the art museum.

The city's art collection was housed in a marble edifice copied from a Greek temple, an Italian villa, and a French chateau. In the Sunday sun it gleamed white and proud, sparkling with a fringe of dripping icicles.

He resisted an urge to go directly to the second floor for a look at the nudes

recommended by Odd Bunsen, but he wandered into the checkroom for a glimpse of the cute chick. He found a long- haired, dreamy-faced girl wrestling with the coat hangers.

She said, glancing at his moustache, "Didn't I see you at the Turp and Chisel last night?"

"Didn't I see you in a pink negligee?"

"We won a prize — Tom LaBlanc and I."

"I know. It was a nice party."

"Real cool. I thought it would be a bomb."

In the lobby Qwilleran approached a uniformed attendant who wore the typical museum-guard expression of suspicion, disapproval, and ferocity.

"Where can I find the museum director?" Qwilleran asked.

"He's not around on Sundays — as a rule — but I saw him walking through the lobby a minute ago. Probably came in to pack. He's leaving here, you know."

"Too bad. I hear he was a good man."

The guard wagged his head sympathetically. "Politics! And that muckraker down at the newspaper. That's what did it. I'm glad I'm civil service…. If you want to see Mr. Farhar, try his office — down this corridor and turn left."

The office wing of the museum was shrouded in its Sunday quiet. Noel Farhar, Director — according to the lettering on the door — was there alone.

Qwilleran walked through the unattended anteroom and into a paneled office adorned with art objects. "Excuse me," he said. "Mr. Farhar?"