Moving nervously about the Great Hall was another man who looked vaguely familiar. He had a handsome face and a brooding expression that changed to a dazzling smile whenever a woman glanced his way; the startling feature of his appearance was a shaven head.

Qwilleran, studying the other guests, noted an attractive redhead in an olive green pantsuit. . . and a young man with a goatee. . . and then he saw her. For a moment he forgot to breathe.

Impossible! he told himself. And yet there was no mistaking that tiny figure, that heavy chestnut hair, that provocative one-sided smile.

At the same time, she turned in his direction and stared in disbelief. He felt a crawling sensation on his upper lip, and he touched his mustache. She started to move toward him across the tile floor-gliding the way she used to do, her dress fluttering the way it used to do, her melodic voice calling. "Jim Qwilleran! Is it really you?"

"Joy! Joy Wheatley!"

"I can't believe it!" She stared at him and then rushed into his arms.

"Let me look at you, Joy. . . You haven't changed a bit."

"Oh, yes, I have."

"How many years has it been?"

"Please don't add them up . . . I like your mustache, Jim, and you're huskier than you were."

"You mean stouter. You're being kind. You were always kind."

She pulled away. "Not always. I'm ashamed of what I did."

He looked at her closely and felt his collar tighten. "I never thought I'd see you again, Joy. What are you doing here?"

"We've been living here since January. My husband and I operate the pottery at the back of the building."

"You're married?" Qwilleran's rising hopes leveled off.

"My name is Graham now. What are you doing here, Jim?"

"No one calls me Jim anymore. I've been Qwill for the last twenty years. "

"Do you still spell Qwilleran with a w?"

"Yes, and it still gives typesetters and proofreaders ulcers."

"Married?"

"Not at the moment."

"Are you still writing?"

"I've been with the Daily Fluxion for more than a year. Haven't you noticed my byline?"

"I'm not much of a reader — don't you remember? And my husband is mad at the Fluxion art critic, so he buys the Morning Rampage."

"Tell me, Joy — where have you been all these; years?"

"Mostly in California — until Mr. Maus invited us I to come here and take charge of the pottery. . . There's so much to talk about! We'll have to — when can we — ?"

"Joy," Qwilleran said, lowering his voice, "why did you run away?"

She sighed and looked first to one side and then the other. "I'll explain later, but first I think you should meet my husband. . . before the terrible-tempered Mr. G. throws a tantrum," she added with a wry smile.

Qwilleran looked across the hall and saw a tall, angular man watching them. Dan Graham had faded carrot hair, a prominent Adam's apple, and freckled skin stretched taut across prominent bones in his face and hands. His worn corduroy jacket, unpressed shirt, and barefoot sandals evidently were intended to express the free artistic spirit, Qwilleran thought, but instead they made the man look seedy and forlorn. But terrible-tempered? . . . No.

Graham's nod of acknowledgment was curt when Joy introduced Qwilleran as "an old flame." There was something pointed about the way she said it- not with mischief but with spite — and Qwilleran thought, All is not well between these two. And he felt guilty about-feeling glad.

He said to Dan Graham, "I knew your wife in Chicago when we were kids. I was the boy next door. I'm with the Daily Fluxion now."

Graham mumbled something. He spoke rapidly and swallowed his words.

"Beg your pardon?" Qwilleran said.

"Gettingreadyforanexhibition. Maybeyoucangetmesomepublicity."

Joy said, "It's going to be a husband-and-wife show. We work in quite different styles. I hope you'll attend the opening, Jim."

"Don'tthinkmuchofyourartcritic," her husband mumbled. Hisreviewsaren'tworthahillofbeans."

"Nobody loves an art critic," Qwilleran said. "That's one newspaper job I wouldn't want. Otherwise, how do you like it here in the Midwest, Mr. Graham?"

"Wouldn't give you two cents for this town," said the potter. Qwilleran's ear was becoming attuned to his rapid delivery and his liberal use of outdated expressions and cliches. "Expect to work in New York eventually — maybe Europe."

"Well, I like this part of the country very much," Joy said defiantly. "I'd like to stay here." She had always liked everything very much. Qwilleran remembered her boundless enthusiasm.

Graham glanced testily at the dinner table. "Jeepers creepers! When do we get some chow? I could eat a horse." He waved an empty champagne glass. "This stuff gives you an appetite and no buzz."

"Do you realize," Qwilleran asked, "that I haven't met our host?"

Joy seized his hand. "You haven't? I'll take you to the kitchen. Robert Maus is a real lamb pie."

She led him through a low-ceilinged corridor at the rear of the Great Hall, gripping his fingers and staying closer to him than was necessary. They walked in self-conscious silence.

The kitchen was a large picturesque room, fragrant with herbs and cooking wine. With its ceramic tile floor, beamed ceiling, and walk-in fireplace, it reminded Qwilleran of kitchens he had seen in Normandy. Copper pots and clusters of dried dill and rosemary hung from an overhead rack, while knives and cleavers were lined up in an oak knife block. On open shelves stood omelet pans, souffle dishes, copper bowls, a fish poacher, salad baskets, and a few culinary objects that remained a mystery to the uninitiated.

Dominating the scene was a towering, well-built man of middle age, immaculate in white shirt, conservative tie, and gold cuff links. He had the dignity of a Supreme Court justice, plus a slight stoop that gave the effect of a gracious bow. A towel was tied around his waist, and he was kneading dough.

When Joy Graham made the introduction, Robert Maus exhibited his floured hands in apology and said in measured tones, after some consideration, "How. . . do you do."

He was assisted by a woman in a white uniform, to whom he gave brief orders in a deferential tone: "Refrigerate, if you please. . . Prepare the sauteuse, if you will. . . And now the chicken, Mrs. Marron. Thank you."

He started boning chicken breasts with deft slashes of a murderous knife.

Qwilleran said, "You handle that weapon with a vengeance."

Maus breathed heavily before replying. "I find it most. . . satisfying." He whipped the knife through the flesh, then gave the quivering beast a whack with the flat of the blade. "Shallots, if you please, Mrs. Marron."

"This is an extraordinary building," Qwilleran remarked. "I've never seen anything like it."

The attorney considered the comment at length before rendering his verdict. "It would not be unreasonable to describe it . . . as an architectural horror," he said. "With all due respect to the patron of the arts who built it, one must concede. . . that his enthusiasm and resources outweighed his. . . aesthetic awareness."

"But the apartments upstairs are adorable," Joy said. "May I take Jim to the balcony, Mr. Maus?"

He nodded graciously. "If it is your pleasure. I am inclined to believe. . . that the door to Number Six. . . is unlocked."

Qwilleran had never seen anything to equal Number Six. The studio apartment they entered was a full two stories high, and half the outer wall was window, composed of many small panes. The orange glow from a spring sunset was flooding the room with color, and three small leaded-glass windows above the desk were making their own rainbows.

Qwilleran blew into his mustache. "I like this furniture!" It was massive, almost medieval in appearance — heavily carved and reinforced with wrought iron.

"It belongs to Ham Hamilton," Joy told him. "Sexy, isn't it? He'll be sending for it as soon as he knows where he's going to be situated."