"Joan! Please hold onto something. Doctor might show up any second."

"Oh, pooh, he wouldn't dare. Never again." Joan turned and touched the latch switch. "Now he can't, so quit fretting."

"You mustn't lock the door. Hospital baths are never locked."

"This isn't a hospital and I'll lock my bathroom door whenever I like and if Dr. Garcia finds out I've locked it the only way he can—by trying to walk in—and dares to mention it, I'll scream my head off to Jake Salomon and there'll be a change in doctors. Winnie dear, I wasn't a cranky old man more years than I care to think about without learning how to get my own way. I just have to use different weapons now. Want to peel off that uniform and hang it in the dressing room? I not only may splash you but this end is going to fill up with steam."

"No, Joan—lukewarm tub. You heard him."

"I heard him and it's going to be the temperature 1 like and that's another thing he'll never know and you know that I'm lively as a frog and not the weak kitten he insists on thinking I am; a hot tub won't hurt me. If you want to get your uniform clammy, that's your business. Better yet, climb into the tub with me. It's big, and short as I am now, I might slide under and drown, alone."

"I shouldn't," Winnie said slowly.

"Isn't that a horrid thought? Patient faints in tub and drowns before nurse can reach her. Not good enough for flash news but they might mention it on the late-late-late early news."

"Joan! You're teasing me." (You sure are, Boss. Erase and correct again—Both tart and butch.) (Fiddlesticks, Eunice. That's a big enough tub for all three of us.)

Winnie bit her lip and slowly unfastened her smock. Joan turned away and started filling the tub, adjusted the temperature, and avoided watching her.

An hour later Joan was seated in an easy chair, with her feet on a stool. To the nightgown had been added a filmy negligee and a pair of high-heeled boudoir pumps. Her hair had been arranged, her face had been most carefully made up, and she was lavishly scented with a cologne labeled "April Mist" but which deserved the title of "Criminal Assault." Her toenails were trimmed, not to Eunice's satisfaction but well enough for the time being. Best of all, she was enjoying the euphoria of a woman who is utterly clean, scented and powdered, and dressed attractively.

Beds had been switched, the room no longer held any flavor of sickroom, and Joan found that this greatly increased her feeling of well-being. Eunice's stenodesk had been restored to its usual spot beyond Johann's baby grand piano, Joan having learned that it was in her study where it had last been used, and had told Cunningham to have it brought in. It did not fit the room—but it fitted her notion of what the room should be; it was homey, it belonged.

She was alone, Winnie having gone to invite Mr. Salomon to dine with his hostess-ward. Joan sighed with satisfaction. (Feel better, hon? I do.) (Heavens, yes. But why did you lose your nerve?) (Oh, piffle, Eunice! I never intended to seduce her.) (Liar. Hypocrite. Dirty old man. You had her all set. Then you went chicken. I've met men like you before, dearie—talk a good game, then lose their nerve in the clutch. Cowardly Casanovas. Pfui!)

(Nonsense! You don't shoot ducks on water. If I ever make a real pass at her—I'm not saying I will but I admit she's a cuddlesome little bundle—) (She is indeed!) (Oh, shut up! If I ever do, I'll give her a sporting chance—not grab her when she dasn't scream.) (‘Sporting chance' my tired back. Listen to your big sister, Joan—sex isn't a sport, it's a way to be happy. There is nothing more exasperating to a woman than to be ready to give in—then have the matter dropped. You'll find out. You'll cry in your pillow and hate every man alive. Till the next time, that is.)

(Eunice? You've never had that sort of turn-down, have you? I don't believe it.) (Happens to every woman, Joan. Men are sissies, if we women weren't so willing, if we didn't just plain lead ‘em by the hand, the race would die out.)

(Uh—You know more about a woman than I do—)

(Lots more!) (—so let's talk about specifics. We're clean now and I know we're pretty; I checked us in the big glass and you agreed. But it isn't the job you used to turn out. I don't mean body paint, wouldn't be appropriate now anyhow. But, what does it take? Just that ‘tuning up'? Exercise?)

(‘More than that, Boss—although exercise is essential. You're talking about a professional job?) (Yes. The works.) (Well, I used to do myself—but I had had lots of practice, plus expert help from Joe. But let's say you want the best and don't care what it costs—) (Certainly! What's money? I can't get rid of it.) (All right, say you retain Helena Rubinstein, Limited, or some other top glamour shop. Say you phone and tell th~n to send a full team.

They would send an art director—male, but he may not be all that male and he's seen more female bodies unmade-up than an undertaker—and he doesn't touch you; he's too high up. He creates. And bosses. Won't look at you until several others get you ready. Minimum, bath girl, masseuse, manicurist, pedicurist, coiffeuse, depilatrix, parfumiste, lace and skin team of at least four, costume designer, highlight and accent specialist, and assistants for all of these if you expect the job done in less than all day. If you put a time limit on it, the price goes up—and if you don't, the price goes up.)

(Say that again?)

(It's like taxes. Any way you play it the price goes up. Boss, we don't need them. With what I know and the chassis we have to work with and a good lady's maid, you can be as glamorous as you like. I don't know where you would find a creative paint man equal to Joe; nevertheless there are good ones for hire. We can shop the market, we'll find one.)

(Eunice, 1 had no idea that being a woman was so complicated.)

(Relax, Boss. Being a woman is easier than being a man—and lots more fun. I'm going to teach you to be a twenty-first-century woman—and I'd be pleased if you would teach me how it was to be a twentieth-century man, and we'll close that silly ‘Generation Gap.' Understand each other as well as loving each other.)

(Beloved.)

(I think you're pretty nice, too, you cranky old bastard. With your brain and my body, we make a fine team. We'll get by.) (I'm sure we will, darling.) (We will. The first thing we need is a good lady's maid—scarce as whales in Kansas. We'll probably have to train one. Then lose her as soon as she's worth anything.) (Eunice, do we need a maid? You used to do yourself.) (I did, and kept house for Joe, and was your secretary and worked any hours you wanted me. But you're not used to that, Boss. You had a valet.) (Yes, of course. But I was very old and didn't have time to waste on such things. Eunice, one of the worst parts about getting old is that the days get shorter while the demands on your time increase. I didn't want a valet; I was forced into it. Didn't enjoy being dependent on a secretary, either—until you came along.)

(Dear Boss. Joan, we will need a maid. But not a secretary until you're active in business again—) (Won't be!) (We'll see. You may have to be. But may not need a secretary unless you get pushed for time. I can handle it. And thanks for having Betsy brought in; it makes me feel at home to see her again. My stenodesk, I mean. Pet name.)

(‘Betsy,' huh? I always thought of it as ‘the Octopus.')

(Why, what a nasty name to apply to a nice, respectable well-behaved machine! Boss, I'm not sure I'm speaking to you. I'm glad Betsy isn't switched on; if she had heard that her feelings would be hurt.)