"Burke!" exclaimed Chris. "Knock it off!"

    The director ignored her, continued to rage, the corners of his mouth flecked foamy with saliva, while Karl leaned mutely against the sink with folded arms and stolid expression, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Dennings.

    "Karl!" Chris snapped. 'Will you get out of here? Get out! Can't you see how he is?"

    But the Swiss would not budge until Chris began actually to shove him toward the door.

    "Naa-zi pig!" Dennings screamed at his back. And then he turned genially to Chris and rubbed his hands together. "What's dessert?" he asked mildly.

    "Dessert!" Chris thumped at her brow with the heel of her hand.

    "Well, I'm hungry," he whined.

    Chris turned to Sharon. "Feed him! I've got to get Regan up to Bed. And, Burke, for chrissakes," she asked the director, "will you behave yourself! There are priests out there!" She pointed.

    He creased his brow as his eyes grew intense with- a sudden and apparently genuine interest. "Oh, you noticed that too?" he asked without guile.

    Chris left the kitchen and went down to check Regan in the basement playroom, where her daughter had spent the entire day. She found her playing with the Ouija board. She seemed sullen; abstracted; remote. Well, at least she isn't feisty, Chris reflected and hopeful of diverting her, she brought her to the living room and began to introduce her to her guests.

    "Oh, isn't she darling!" said the wife of the senator.

    Regan was strangely well behaved, except for a moment with Mrs. Perrin when she would neither speak nor accept her hand. But the seeress made a joke of it.

    "Knows I'm a fake," She winked at Chris. But then, with a curious air of scrutiny, she reached forward and gripped Regan's hand with a gentle pressure, as if checking her pulse. Regan quickly shook her off and glared malevolently.

    "Oh, dear, dear, dear, she must be tired," Mrs. Perrin said casually; yet she continued to watch Regan with a probing fixity, an anxiety unexplained.

    "She's been feeling kind of sick," Chris murmured in apology. She looked down at Regan. "Haven't you, honey?"

    Regan did not answer. She kept her eyes on the floor.

    There was no one left for Began to meet except the senator and Robert, Mrs. Perrin's son, and Chris thought it best to pass them up. She took Regan up to bed and tucked her in.

    "Do you think you can sleep?" Chris asked.

    "I don't know," she answered dreamily. She'd turned on her side and was staring at the wall with a distant expression.

    "Would you like me to read to you for a while?"

    A shake of the head.

    "Okay, then. Try to sleep."

    She leaned over and kissed her, and then walked to the door and flicked the light switch.

    "Night, my baby."

    Chris was almost out the door when Regan called out to her very softly: "Mother, what's wrong with me?"

    So haunted. The tone so despairing. So disproportionate to her condition. For a moment the mother felt shaken and confused. But quickly she righted herself.

    "Well, it's just like I said, hon; it's nerves. All you need is those pills for a couple of weeks and I know you'll be feeling just fine. Now then, try to go to sleep, hon, okay?'

    No response. Chris waited.

    "Okay?" she repeated.

    "Okay," whispered Regan.

    Chris abruptly noticed goose pimples rising on her forearm. She rubbed it. Good Christ, it gets cold in this room. Where's the draft coming in from?

    She moved to the window and checked along the edges. Found nothing. Turned to Regan. "'You warm enough, baby?"

    No answer.

    Chris moved to the bedside. "Regan? You asleep?" she whispered.

    Eyes closed. Deep breathing.

    Chris tiptoed from the room.

    From the hall she heard singing, and as she walked down the stairs, she saw with pleasure that the young Father Dyer was playing the piano near the livingroom picture window and was leading a group that had gathered around him in cheerful song. As she entered the living room, they had just finished "Till We Meet Again."

    Chris started forward to join the group, but was quickly intercepted by the senator and his wife, who had their coats across their arms. They seemed edgy.

    "Are you leaving so soon?" Chris asked.

    "Oh, I'm really so sorry, and my dear, we've had a marvelous evening," the senator effused "But poor Martha's got a headache."

    "Oh, I am so sorry, but I do feel terrible," moaned the senator's wife. "Will you excuse us, Chris? It'd been such a lovely party."

    "I'm really sorry you have to go," said Chris.

    She accompanied them to the door and she could hear Father Dyer in the background asking, "Does anyone else know the words to 'I'll Bet You're Sorry Now, Tokyo Rose'?"

    She bade them good night. On her way back to the living room, Sharon stepped quietly out from the study.

    "Where's Burke?" Chris asked her.

    "In there," Sharon answered with a nod toward the study. "He's sleeping it off. Say, what did the senator say to you? Anything?"

    "What do you mean?" asked Chris. "They just left."

    "Well, I guess it's as well."

    "Sharon, what do you mean?"

    "Oh, Burke," sighed Sharon. In a guarded tone, she described an encounter between the senator and the director. Dennings, had remarked to him, in passing, said Sharon, that there appeared to be "an alien pubic hair floating round in my gin." Then he'd turned to the senator and added in a tone that was vaguely accusatory, "Never seen it before in my life! Have you?"

    Chris giggled as Sharon went on to describe how the senator's embarrassed reaction had triggered one of Dennings' quixotic rages, in which he'd expressed his "boundless gratitude" for the existence of politicians, since without them "one couldn't distinguish who the statesmen were, you see."