Mark turned slightly and leaned against the fence, folding his arms in what he probably hoped was a pose of sophisticated nonchalance. Tilting his head attentively, he seemed to listen as the invisible girl spoke. Then he burst into laughter, his shoulders shaking, his mouth opening wide.

"It's as good as an old Laurel and Hardy silent film," said Nancy, enthralled. "Pretty soon another suitor will come along with the custard pie."

"She must be very pretty," Pat said, trying to raise herself high enough to see over the hedge, but failing. "Mark wouldn't react that way unless she was-"

"I knew it!" Nancy hooted with laughter. "Here comes the third angle of the triangle."

"He's too old to be a suitor," Pat said. "He's wearing a hat. Have you ever known a nineteen-year-old boy to wear a hat? Or a raincoat?"

The newcomer's height almost matched Mark's, but he was heavier and broader of shoulder. Rain had begun to streak the window, so the snoopers were unable to see his face clearly, shadowed as it was by the hat brim. Pat got an impression of strongly marked features, heavy eyebrows, and a general air of disapproval-though she could not have specified the precise reasons for that impression.

"It's Friedrichs," Nancy said, swiping vainly at the wet pane. "I think… Damn this rain."

"Whoever he is, he's the winner," Pat said, as the blond head turned and retreated, side by side with the raincoat and the hat. Mark stood staring after them, oblivious of the rain that was falling more heavily, streaking his face and flattening his hair.

"He hasn't got an umbrella," Pat said, swinging her feet down to the floor.

Nancy caught her arm.

"Does he own an umbrella? Mine wouldn't be caught dead carrying one. He won't take cold, they never do-at least not from getting wet. Doesn't he look ridiculous?" Nancy chuckled. "That's why he came home, the little hypocrite. One of the boys must have told him about the girl. Lecturing us on snooping, and then-"

"You're mean," Pat said, watching her son slouch slowly toward his car. His head was still turned in the direction of the house into which the fair head had disappeared. He stumbled over an obstruction of some kind and kept his feet only by a comic series of contortions.

Nancy 's laughter increased in volume.

"Serves him right," she said heartlessly. "I hope he's thoroughly smitten. He's broken enough hearts in his time. He's ripe for a painful love affair."

"Maybe you're right," Pat said, smiling.

Later she was to remember Nancy 's comment, and wonder whether she would have agreed with it if she had had any premonition of how peculiarly painful this affair would be, not only for Mark, but for the others who were about to be drawn into its perilous course.

As Pat suffered through the first months of widowhood she realized that the greatest thing Jerry had done for her was to help her cultivate independence. Bad as those months were, they would have been worse if she had not learned to think of herself as a complete person in her own right. In losing Jerry she had lost the most joyful part of her life, but she had not lost part of herself. She was not maimed.

Not that it came that easily, or was that consciously acknowledged. It had never been conscious, on either part. Jerry had been that rare creature, an adult human being. He gave freely and accepted only willing gifts. They fought, of course. Like his son, Jerry had a quick, indignant temper and a loud voice. He was as impatient of cruelty as he was of deliberate stupidity. But their arguments were always about acts or ideas, never about personalities, and some of the loudest concerned Pat's tendency-as her husband viewed it-to let other people take advantage of her.

Mark was the most consistent offender. Jerry admitted that it was natural for a child, the most egocentric of all creatures, to demand unreasonable concessions from parents; but he maintained that the only way to teach people consideration for others was to force them to be considerate. One of his pet hates was what he called the guilty-parent syndrome.

"You've been reading that damned child-behavior column again," he would roar at Pat, when she agonized over some imagined failure in dealing with their son. "Damn it, you're a good mother! You know a lot more about how to raise a child than some fool psychologist who sits in his office all day writing columns. You're not guilty! Stop feeling guilty or I'll rap you!"

At four o'clock on that rainy day when the new neighbors moved in, Pat went down to the kitchen and began cooking a large, elaborate dinner. Maybe Mark had not meant his criticism to make her feel guilty. On the other hand, he probably had.

Pat shook her head, smiling ruefully, as she gathered the ingredients for Mark's favorite, made-from-scratch muffins. At least she knew why she was going to so much trouble, on a day when she really didn't feel too great.

Her guilt feelings had not been severe enough to remove her from her post at the upstairs window until after the moving vans left. Nancy had departed several hours earlier, cursing the dental appointment that took her from the scene of the action. They had seen no more of the Friedrichs, who were undoubtedly inside trying to sort out their belongings-a horrible, tiring job, that one. And no woman in the house…

The ensuing developments were really Pat's own fault-or, as Jerry might have said, "You asked for it, kid." She would have done the same thing, though, even if there had been a Mrs. Friedrichs. It was only neighborly. She had been through the moving routine herself, and knew only too well what it was like. She was preparing her own dinner; it was not much more trouble to make a double batch of muffins, and two casseroles.

At five she had the casseroles ready for the oven, and the muffins were done. Mark had not appeared. Snuffling, for her cold had reached the drippy stage, Pat got into boots and raincoat and scarf, piled the extra food into a canvas carry-all, and went out.

There was no gate between the two properties, so she had to go along her front walk and out the gate onto the street. With an umbrella in one hand and the carry-all in the other, opening and closing gates became a major chore, especially since the Friedrichs' gate stuck, rusted from disuse, no doubt. Rejoicing in her noble motives, Pat was not too saintly to observe, with considerble interest, that the armies of workmen who had come and gone in the past weeks had done wonders for the appearance of the old house. The carved porch pillars had been repaired and painted, the front door had new hinges and a fancy brass knocker, the broken windowpanes, boarded over by old Hiram, had been replaced. There was even a doormat. It did not say "Welcome."

Pat put down her dripping umbrella and used the brass knocker. Virtuously she refrained from looking through the glass panels on either side of the door. The panels on her door were of stained glass, old fragments acquired by Jerry at an antique auction. They gave more privacy than clear glass, and suited the period-or so Jerry claimed.

Lost in the mental fog that still tended to cloud her mind when she thought of Jerry, she did not hear the approaching footsteps. When the door swung open she jumped.

The expression on the face of the man who stood looking down at her did nothing to make her feel at ease. Pat was suddenly conscious of the brilliant red of her nose, and of the lock of hair that had escaped from under her scarf to drip on her cheek. She had meant to buy a new raincoat, only the prices were so awful…

"Hello," she said. "I'm Pat Robbins, from next door?"

Now why had she made that statement sound like a question? She knew who she was.

Friedrichs continued to stare at her in silence. He had a long, prominent nose and a thin mouth. Though not conventionally handsome, his face had distinction and character, and his thick dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was as attractive as Nancy had claimed. Pat wondered what he would look like if he smiled. He was not smiling now; his expression of cold disinterest made her feel even grubbier and shorter than she really was.