"I just dropped by to welcome you to the neighborhood," she said. "If there is anything I can do…"

"Thank you," Friedrichs said, after an interval that was, surely, deliberately prolonged. "There is nothing."

By that time Pat knew she was in trouble, and that there was no way to get out of it gracefully. But she was damned if she was going to carry the casserole back home, like a rejected kitten.

"Here," she said, thrusting the carry-all and its contents at Friedrichs. He had to take it, but his expression was that of a man accepting a parcel from the garbage man: contents unknown, but highly suspect. "I thought you might not feel like going out for dinner on such a wretched evening," Pat went on desperately. "And I know what moving day is like; the pots and pans are always at the bottom of a carton marked 'Books.' "

Friedrichs peered into the carry-all. Pat saw that her apple-cinnamon muffins had escaped the twisted silver paper in which she had wrapped them, and were sprawled dissolutely on top of the casserole like rejected leftovers.

"How kind of you, Mrs. Robbins," he said, drawling his words. "It's delightful to meet a woman who believes in the good old adages."

They stood staring at one another for a moment, Pat in bewilderment, Friedrichs smiling faintly. Pat knew that the smile, like the enigmatic comment, was not intended to be friendly.

"Well," she said. "Please let us know if there is anything we can do. Good night."

If she had been a little less upset, she would have seen that Friedrichs' cynical mouth relaxed, and that his lips parted as if he were about to speak. But she was in a hurry to get away.

Naturally, she forgot her umbrella. She didn't remember it until she was at her own gate, and the rain was running down her face. By then she would rather have drowned than go back. She didn't understand Friedrichs' comment, but there was no mistaking his general attitude. Antagonistic? Hostile? Suspicious? She couldn't decide on the right word-words had been Jerry's hobby, not hers-but any of them might apply.

After she had hung up her raincoat and changed her wet shoes, she went to the kitchen to see how dinner was coming along. Contrary to her usual habit-solitary drinking was a danger she consciously avoided-she poured herself a glass of sherry and sat down at the kitchen table to think about adages. What the hades had the man meant? Adages were sayings, like, "There's many a slip between the cup and the lip," or "A stitch in time saves nine…"

Then the answer struck her, and she felt a wave of color flood her face. "The way to a man's heart is through…" Oh, no. He couldn't have meant that one, he couldn't be so rude!

But he had been rude. Everything he had said, every change of expression had been designed to offend. And he knew who she was. He had called her Mrs. Robbins. The workmen he had employed, painters and plumbers and electricians, were local men; she had recognized their trucks. They would have gossiped. "Nice lady next door, Mr. Friedrichs; lost her husband last year." Or would they say that? Maybe they didn't think she was a nice lady. Maybe they said something like, "Watch out for that widow next door, Mr. F.; you know women, she'll be looking for a new mealticket…"

When Mark came in the back door he found his mother with her head down on the kitchen table, emitting horrible snorting noises.

Being a young man of practical bent, he checked the stove first. Nothing was burning. Having ascertained that his dinner was not in danger, he put a large, oil-stained hand on his mother's heaving shoulder and said gently, "What's bugging you, chick?"

"Oh!" Pat sat upright. "I didn't hear you come in. Why is it that you sound like a thundering herd most of the time, and then walk like Natty Bumppo when I would appreciate some notice of your approach?"

"Who's Natty Bumppo?"

"Never mind." Pat took a napkin from the holder on the table and wiped her eyes.

Mark sat down opposite her. He refilled her sherry glass and then lifted the bottle to his lips.

"Mark!"

"Thought that would get you." Mark put the bottle down and indicated her glass. "Drink up. What's the problem, Mom? Is it… Dad?"

"No," Pat said, mildly surprised. She managed a feeble laugh. "Mark, you wouldn't believe it. I have been insulted. How about challenging somebody to a duel?"

"Sure," Mark said, looking relieved. "Custard pies at fifty paces? Two falls out of three? Who insulted you, dear gray-haired mother of mine? When is dinner?"

Pat started to laugh, and hiccuped. "You horrible person," she said.

"Hey, Mom…"

Pat pushed him away.

"Being embraced by you is like being hugged by a grizzly," she complained. "I'm sorry, bud. This rotten cold is making me weepy. I had a fit of neighborliness, and took a casserole next door. I was not well received."

"If he refused one of your casseroles he's out of his skull," Mark said tactfully. "It smells great."

"Oh, I'm being silly." Pat gave her nose one last swipe and rose to her feet. "What do you want, corn or green beans?"

"Both. Please." Mark was on a vegetable kick. He added, finishing Pat's sherry, "Seriously, Morn, what did the guy say? I mean, if he really was rude to you-"

Pat stood stock-still, the packages of frozen vegetables in her hand, and stared thoughtfully at Mark.

"He was rude," she said, after a moment. "But in a strange way. He wasn't rude to me personally. How could he be? He doesn't even know me. He's hurt and angry at the whole world."

"His wife left him last year," Mark said.

"How do you know?"

"Kathy told me."

"Oh, her name is Kathy, is it? How did you elicit such personal information from the girl in such a short time?"

"Aha!" Mark leaped from his chair like Dracula preparing to swoop on a victim. "You and Mrs. Groft were snooping, weren't you? I knew you were watching me. Honest to God, a person has got no more privacy around here-"

"That's one of the little problems of community living," Pat said. She was feeling better, and was inclined to laugh at her own sensitivity. "What is the girl like, Mark? We couldn't see anything but the top of her head."

Mark drifted to the cupboard and began foraging in the cookie drawer. His mother made no comment; to call his appetite voracious was to understate the case, and she knew he could consume an entire box of cookies and still eat an excellent dinner.

"Very foxy," he said, his face averted.

"Blond?"

"If you saw the top of her head-"

"Small."

"Five-two, a hundred and one pounds."

"Mark-"

"Just a rough estimate," Mark said, grinning.

"I don't care about her measurements. What is she like?"

There was a pause.

"Nice," Mark said. His mother stared at him. "Well, dammit," Mark said, "isn't that what you're always saying? 'She's such a nice girl,' and like that? She's… nice."

"Hmmm."

"If you're going to act like that, I'm leaving," Mark growled. He caught Pat's eye, and after a tense moment he suddenly burst out laughing. "Hey, cut it out, Mom."

"I love you," Pat said.

"Me, too," Mark said, and laughed again. He sat down at the table with a box of chocolate-chip cookies. "We didn't have much time to talk. I just introduced myself and I said welcome to the neighborhood and like that, and I told her about my-my family, and she told me about hers… She's going to Princeton next fall."

" Princeton!" Pat was properly impressed.

"Yeah, well, I guess she's pretty bright," Mark said thickly, swallowing a cookie whole. "Changing schools in your last semester of high school is tough. She's finished her course work already. Only her dad thinks it's better for her to be in school, so she's going to Willowburn."

Willowburn was a private school, one of the most highly regarded in the area, and very expensive. Pat nodded thoughtfully.