When Qwilleran went home and told his widowed landlady he was moving, she cried a little, and when he gave her a month's rent in lieu of notice, Mrs. Cobb shed a few more tears.

The rent at Maus Haus was higher than he had been paying on Zwinger Street, but he told himself that the sophisticated cuisine was appropriate to his new assignment and that the cats would enjoy the bearskin rug. Yet he was fully aware of his real reason for moving.

The cats were asleep on the daybed when he went into his old apartment, and he waked them with stroking. Koko, without opening his eyes, licked Yum Yum's nose' Yum Yum licked Koko's right ear; Koko licked a paw, which happened to be his own; and Yum Yum licked Qwilleran's hand with her sandpaper tongue. He gave them some jellied clams from Maus Haus, and then he phoned Arch Riker at home.

"Arch, I hope I didn't get you out of bed," he said. "You'll never guess who walked back into my life again tonight . . . Joy!"

There was an incredulous pause at the other end of the line. "Not Joy Wheatley!"

"She's Joy Graham now. She's married."

"What's she — ? Where did you see — ?"

"She and her husband are artists, and they've come here from California."

"Joy's an artist?"

"They do ceramics. They live in a pottery on River Road, and I'm taking an apartment in the same building."

"Careful," Arch warned.

"Don't jump to conclusions. It's all over as far as I'm concerned."

"How does she look?"

"Fine! Cute as ever. And she's the same impetuous girl. Act now, think later."

"Did she explain what — or why — ?"

"We didn't have that much time to talk.:

"Well, that's a bombshell! Wait till I wake up Rosie and tell her!"

"See you tomorrow around noon," Qwilleran said. "I want to stop at Kipper and Fine on my way to the office and look at their spring suits. I could use some new clothes."

He whipped off his tie and sank into an easy chair and dredged up whimsical memories: Joy baking bread in her aunt's kitchen and losing a Band-Aid in the dough; Joy getting her long hair caught in the sewing machine. As a boy he had written poems about her: Joy . . . coy . . . alloy. Qwilleran shook his head. It was incredible.

On Tuesday morning — a day that smelled joyously of spring — he spent some of his prize money on a new pair of shoes and a suit in a cut more fashionable than he had owned for some time. At noon he lunched with Arch Riker, reminiscing about old times in Chicago when they were both cub reporters, double-dating Joy and Rosie. In the afternoon he borrowed a station wagon from an antique dealer and moved his belongings to Maus Haus.

Koko and Yum Yum traveled in a canned soup carton with air holes punched in the sides, and all during the journey the box rocked and thumped and resounded with the growls and hisses of feline mayhem. Koko, a master of strategy, went through the motions of murdering Yum Yum whenever he wanted to attract urgent attention, and the little female was a willing accomplice, but Qwilleran knew their act and was no longer deceived.

Mrs. Marron, the housekeeper, admitted Qwilleran and the soup carton to Maus Haus. She was a sad-faced woman with dull eyes and a sallow complexion. With weary step she led the way across the Great Hall, now flooded with daylight from a skylight three stories overhead.

"I gave Number Six a good cleaning," she said. "William washed the walls last week. He'll bring your things up when he comes home from school."

The afternoon sun was streaming through the huge studio window as if to prove the spotlessness of the premises. The floor of brown ceramic tile gleamed with an iridescent patina; the dark oak furniture was polished; the windowpanes sparkled. Mrs. Marron lowered the Roman shade — a contraption of pleated canvas favored by artists in earlier days — and said, "Mr. Maus didn't tell me what meals you'd be taking. Everybody works different hours. They come and they go. They eat or they don't eat."

"I'll have breakfast and notify you from day to day about the other meals," Qwilleran said. "Count me in for dinner tonight . . . How about this telephone? Is it connected?"

"I'll tell the phone company to start service." She suddenly jumped back. "Oh! What's in that box?"

The soup carton, which Qwilleran had placed on the desk, had gone into convulsions, quaking and rocking and emitting unearthly sounds.

"I have two Siamese cats," the newsman explained, "and I want to be sure they don't get out of the apartment, Mrs. Marron."

"Are they expensive?"

"They're extremely important to me, and I don't want anything to happen to them. Please be careful when you come in to clean."

When the housekeeper left, Qwilleran closed the door, first testing the lock and the latch. He also investigated the catches on the three small casement windows over the desk. He checked the bathroom window, heat registers, air vents, and anything else that might serve as an escape hatch for a determined cat. Only then did he open the soup carton.

The cats emerged cautiously, swinging their heads from side to side. Then with one accord they crept toward the white bear rug, stalking it with tails dipped and bellies close to the floor. When the beast made no move to attack or retreat, Koko bravely put his head inside the gaping jaws. He sniffed the teeth and stared into the glass eyes. Yum Yum stepped daintily on the pelt, and soon she was rolling over and over on the white fur in apparent ecstasy.

Qwilleran's practiced eye perused the apartment for trouble spots and found it catproof. His inquisitive roommates would not be able to burrow into the box spring; the bed was a captain's bunk, built in between two large wardrobes. There were no plants for Yum Yum to chew. The lamp on the desk was weighty enough to remain upright during a cat chase.

For entertainment there were pigeons on the ledge outside the windows, and an oak dining table in a sunny spot would hold the cats' blue cushion.

"I think this place will do," Qwilleran said to the cats. "Don't you?"

The answer came from the bathroom, where Koko was crowing in exultation, enjoying the extra resonance that tile walls gave to his normally loud and penetrating voice.

The man felt exhilarated, too. In fact, his elation had acted as a substitute for calories at lunchtime. Since meeting Joy the night before, his hunger pangs had vanished, and already he felt thinner. He wondered whether Joy was in the pottery — and whether it would be discreet to go looking for her — and whether he would see her at the dinner table.

Then he remembered the can of boned chicken in his topcoat pocket. He found a can opener in the tiny kitchenette and was arranging morsels of chicken on a handmade stoneware plate when he heard a knock at the door. It was a playful knock. Was it Joy? Hastily he placed the dish on the bathroom floor, summoned the cats, and closed the door on them. Before answering the knock, he took time to glance in the bathroom mirror, straighten his tie, and run a hand over his hair. With his face pleasantly composed, he flung open the door.

"Hi!" said William, who stood there grinning and carrying a suitcase and a carton of books.

"Oh, it's you," said Qwilleran, his face relaxing into its usual sober lines. "Thanks. Just drop them anywhere."

"You've got the best setup in the whole building," the houseboy said, walking around the room with a proprietary swagger. "How much rent is Mickey Maus charging you?"

"There are some more boxes in the wagon," Qwilleran told him. "And a scale, and a big wrought-iron coat of arms. Do you mind bringing them up?" He started unpacking books, stacking them in the row of built-in bookcases at one end of the room.

William walked to the window. "You've got a good view. You'll be able to watch all the wild parties down at the marina. . . Do you play bridge?"