The attorney sagely nodded approval. "His restaurant is experiencing certain — shall we say? — difficulties at this time, and it is undoubtedly true that some manner of . . . favorable comment in the press would not go unappreciated. I deem it inadvisable to elucidate, but Mr. Sorrel, I am sure, will be happy to discuss the matter with you, if you so . . . desire."

"And what about Charlotte Roop?"

Maus laid down his knife and fork, which he was manipulating in the European manner. "Ah, there is a jewel! Do not allow yourself to be misled by the fluttering spinster facade. Miss Roop is a successful career woman with remarkable executive ability and integrity of the highest order. If she suffers from certain character defects, it behooves us to leave them unmentioned."

Qwilleran took his second bite. "Rosemary Whiting seems to be very nice. A perfect lady."

"A Canadian," Maus said. His face was beatific as he savored the veal, having come to terms with the excess of tarragon.

"What's her special interest in food?"

"Mrs. Whiting, it pains me to say, is a purveyor of health foods. You may have heard her panegyrics to soybeans and sunflower seeds."

"And Hixie Rice, I understand, is a food writer."

Maus raised his hands in a dignified gesture of resignation. "The young lady writes, in the course of duty, those appalling menus for third-rate restaurants: 'Today's special — a delectable ragout blending tender tidbits of succulent baby lamb with garden-sweet carrots, pristine cubes of choice Michigan potato, and jewellike peas — all in a tasty sauce redolent of the Far East.' That effusion of baroque prose indicates, as you may be aware, yesterday's leftovers drowning in canned gravy. . . with sufficient curry powder to camouflage the rancidity."

Qwilleran took his third bite. "William is an interesting character, too."

"He prattles to excess, alas, and boasts no useful skills, but he is congenial, and his bridge game is not without merit."

The captain and the waiters had been observing, with increasing alarm, Qwilleran's dilatory attitude toward the food, and now there was a stir among the staff as the head chef came storming from the kitchen.

He walked directly toward Qwilleran and demanded, "You no like my cooking?"

"A true gourmet never stuffs himself," the newsman replied calmly. "The food is excellent, rest assured. I'd like to take the rest of this veal home to my cats."

"Gatti! Santa Maria! So now I cook for gatti!" The chef threw up his hands and charged back to the kitchen.

After the braised fennel amandine and the tossed salad with nasturtium seeds, and the chestnut puree in meringue nests, and the demitasse, Qwilleran reached in his pocket for his pipe and drew forth the turquoise beetle that Koko had found near the waterfront. "Ever see that before?"

Maus nodded. .. Mrs. Graham had the charm to present to each of us a scarab-as a token, so to speak, of good fortune. Mine has, unhappily, disappeared — an omen that bodes no good, one would imagine."

Qwilleran paid the check, thankful that the Fluxion was footing the bill; he could have lived for a week on the tip alone. And now he was eager to go home. He had made no notes during the dinner interview, as Maus expounded his culinary tenets. The newsman knew that cautious subjects speak more freely when their words are not being recorded. But he had accumulated plenty of material for a column on Robert Maus, and now it was necessary to collect the piquant quotes from the corners of his mind and get them down on paper before they faded from memory. As soon as the waiters brought the cats' veal to the table, wrapped in a linen napkin, the two men departed — Maus radiating gustatory satisfaction and Qwilleran feeling vaguely hungry and a trifle sorry for himself.

When they arrived at Maus Haus, the attorney took his attache case to the kitchen and Qwilleran climbed the grand staircase, but at the landing he turned right instead of left. A sudden impulse led him to Hixie's apartment.

Just as he raised his hand to knock on the door, he heard a man's voice, and he hesitated. Through the thick oak panel he could hear only the rumble of the masculine voice without distinguishing the words, but the inflections indicated that the man was coaxing and gently arguing. At first it sounded like a television drama, but then Qwilleran recognized the second voice in the dialogue.

Hixie was saying, "No! That's final! . . . Thanks a lot but no thanks!" The high pitch of her voice made the words distinguishable.

There was a wheedling reply from the man.

"That doesn't make any difference. You know my terms." She lowered her voice in answer to a question. "Of course I do, but you shouldn't have come here. We agreed you'd never come here. . . All right, just one drink, and then you've got to leave."

Qwilleran knocked on the door.

There was an abrupt silence and a long wait before Hixie's heels could be heard clicking on the floor and approaching the door. "Who is it?" She opened the door cautiously. "Oh, it's you!" she said with a nervous smile. "I was on the telephone. Sorry to keep you waiting." She did not invite him in.

"I just wondered if you'd like to go to a cheese-tasting tomorrow afternoon. It's a press party."

"Yes, I'd love it. Where shall I meet you?"

"How about the lobby of the Stilton Hotel?"

"That's fine. You know me! I love to eat."

"There'll be drinks, of course."

"Love to drink, too." She battered her long false eyelashes.

Qwilleran tried to glance over her shoulder, but the door was only partially open, and the room was in shadow. He saw only a flutter of movement — a bird hopping about in a cage. "See you tomorrow," he said.

Qwilleran preferred to date women with figures more svelte and clothes more tasteful, but he wanted to ask questions, and he was sure that Hixie liked to babble answers. As he walked around the balcony to Number Six, he was determined to keep an ear tuned for activity across the hall. After "just one drink," who would slip out of Hixie's apartment and where would he go? Why, he asked himself, am I such a nosy bastard? But when he unlocked his own door and stepped into the apartment, he forgot his curiosity. The place was a scene of havoc.

All the pictures on the wall over the bookcase were hanging askew. Several books were on the floor with covers spread and pages rumpled. The wastebasket had been overturned, and its contents were strewn about the tile floor. Cushions had been thrown on the floor, and the desktop was swept clean of all but the typewriter. Burglary? Vandalism? Qwilleran glanced swiftly about him before he took a further step into the room. His foot came down on a small object that crunched and pulverized. He stepped quickly aside. Crunch! There were scores of small brown balls scattered about the floor, and the bearskin rug was missing. . . No, it was huddled under the desk.

"You devils!" Qwilleran bellowed. Those brown balls were Fishy Fritters! The open carton lay on the kitchen floor, empty, and beside it was the plate on which the untouched Pussy Pate had dried to a nauseating crust. Now it was clear: The devastation was a protest demonstration staged by two militant cats.

The culprits themselves were asleep on the bunk, Yum Yum curled up in a tight ball and Koko stretched full length in a posture of complete exhaustion. When Qwilleran unfolded the linen napkin, however, noses were twitching and ears were alerted, and the two reprobates reported to the kitchen to claim — in a bedlam of baritone and soprano yowls — their escalopes de veau sautees a l'estragon.

"Only a complete sucker would give you a feast after a performance like that," Qwilleran told them.

After straightening the pictures and shoveling up the Fishy Fritters from the four corners of the room, he put on his slippers, lit a pipeful of tobacco, and sat down at his typewriter to list his impressions of the Toledo Tombs and the food foibles of the meritorious gastronome.