Do you like contemporary design?" "I like anything," said Qwilleran, 'as long as it's comfortable, and I can put my feet on it." The girl appraised him frankly. "You're better looking than your picture in the magazine. You look serious and responsible, but also interesting. Are you married?" "Not at the moment." "You must feel crushed about what happened this weekend." "You mean the theft in Muggy Swamp?" "Do you suppose Mr. Tait will sue the Daily Fluxion?" Qwilleran shook his head. "He wouldn't get to first base. We printed nothing that was untrue or libelous. And, of course, we had his permission to publish his house in the first place." "But the robbery will damage your magazine's image, you must admit," said Miss Wright.

Just then the Dutch door opened, and a voice said,"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Am I late?" "Here comes Mother Middy," said the girl with the taunting eyes.

The dumpling of a woman who bustled into the studio was breathless and apologetic. She had been hurrying, and wisps of gray hair were escaping in all directions from the confinement of her shapeless mouse-gray hat.

"Get us some coffee, dear," she said to her assistant. "I'm all upset. I just got a ticket for speeding. But the officer was so kind! They have such nice policemen on the force." The decorator sat down heavily in a black and gold rocking chair. "Why don't you write a nice article about our policemen, Mr. - Mr. — " "Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran," he said. "I'm afraid that's not my department, but I'd like to write a nice article about you." "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Middy, as she removed her hat and patted her hair.

The coffee came in rosebud-covered cups, and Miss Wright served it with her eyebrows arched in disapproval of the design. Then the decorator and the newsman discussed possibilities for Gracious Abodes.

"I've done some lovely interiors lately," said Mrs. Middy. "Dr. Mason's house is charming, but it isn't quite finished.

We're waiting for lamps. Professor Dewitt's house is lovely, too, but the draperies aren't hung." "The manufacturers discontinued the pattern," said Qwilleran.

"Yes! How did you know?" She rocked her chair violently. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What to do?" "The housing?" her assistant whispered.

"Oh, yes, we've just finished some dormitories for the university," Mrs. Middy said, "and a sorority house for Delta Thelta, or whatever it's called. But those are out of town." "Don't forget Mrs. Allison's," said Miss Wright.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Allison's is really lovely. Would you be interested in a residence for career girls, Mr. Qwillum? It shows what can be done with a boardinghouse. It's one of those turn-of-the-century mansions on Merchant Street — all very gloomy and grotesque before Mrs. Allison called me in." "It looked like a Victorian bordello," said Miss Wright.

"I used crewelwork in the living room and canopied beds in the girls' rooms. And the dining room turned out very well. Instead of one long table, which looks so institutional, I used lots of little skirted tables, like a cafe." Qwilleran had been considering only private residences, but he was willing to publish anything that could be photographed in a hurry.

"What is the color scheme?" he asked.

"The theme is Cherry Red," said Mrs. Middy, "with variations. Upstairs it's all Cherry Pink. Oh, you'll love it! You'll just love it." "Any chance of photographing this afternoon?" "Oh, dear! That's too soon. People like to tidy up before the photographer comes." "Tomorrow morning, then?" "I'll call Mrs. Allison right away." The decorator bustled to the telephone, and Alacoque Wright said to Qwilleran: "Mother Middy has done wonders with the Allison house. It doesn't look like a Victorian bordello any more. It looks like an Early American bordello." While the arrangements were being made, Qwilleran made an arrangement of his own with Miss Wright for Wednesday evening, at six o'- clock, under the City Hall clock, and he left the Middy studio with a lilting sensation in his moustache. On the way back to the office he stopped at a gourmet shop and bought a can of smoked oysters for Koko.

That evening Qwilleran packed his books in three corrugated cartons from the grocery store and dusted his two pieces of luggage. Koko watched the process with concern. He had not touched the smoked oysters.

Qwilleran said, "What's the matter? Dieting?" Koko began to prowl the apartment from one end to the other, occasionally stopping to sniff the cartons and utter a long, mournful howl.

"You're worried!" Qwilleran said. "You don't want to move." He picked up the cat and stroked his head reassuringly, then placed him on the open pages of the dictionary. "Come on, let's have a good rousing game to chase away the blues." Koko dug his claws into the pages halfheartedly.

"Balance and bald," Qwilleran read. "Elementary! Two points for me. You'll have to try harder. " Koko grabbed again.

"Kohistani and koolokamba." Qwilleran knew.the definition of the first, but he had to look up koolokamba. "A West African anthropoid ape with the head nearly bald and the face and hands black," he read. "That's great! That'll be a handy addition to my everyday vocabulary. Thanks a lot!" At the end of nine innings Qwilleran had won, 14 to 4. For the most part Koko had turned up easy catchwords like rook and root, frame and frank.

"You're losing your knack," Qwilleran told him, and Koko responded with a long, indignant howl.

On Wednesday morning Qwilleran and Bunsen drove to the Allison house on Merchant Street. Qwilleran said he hoped some of the girls would be there. Bunsen said he'd like to photograph one of the canopied beds with a girl in it.

The house was a Victorian monster — the love-song of a nineteenth-century carpenter enamored of his jigsaw — but it was freshly painted, and the windows exhibited perky curtains. Mrs. Middy met them at the door, wearing her shapeless hat and a frilly lace collar.

"Where's the girls?" Bunsen shouted. "Bring on the girls!" "Oh, they're not here in the daytime," said Mrs. Middy. "They're working girls. Now, what would you like to see?

Where would you like to start?" "What I want to see," said the photographer, "is those bedrooms with canopied beds." The decorator bustled around, plumping cushions and moving ashtrays. Then a haggard woman came from the rear of the house. Her face was colorless, and her hair was done up in rollers, covered by a net cap. She wore a housecoat of a depressing floral pattern, but her manner was hearty.

"Hello, boys," she said. "Make yourselves at home. I've unlocked the sideboard, if you want to pour a drink." "It's too early for hooch," said Bunsen, "even for me." "You want some coffee?" Mrs. Allison turned her face toward the rear of the house, and shouted. "Elsie, bring some coffee!" To her guests she said, "Do you boys like sticky buns?… Elsie, bring some sticky buns!" There was a piping, unintelligible reply from the kitchen.

"Then find something else!" yelled Mrs. Allison.

"It's a nice place you've got here," Qwilleran said.

"It pays to run a decent establishment," said the house mother, "and Mrs. Middy knows how to make a place comfortable. She doesn't come cheap, but she's worth every penny." "Why did you choose Early American for your house?" For an answer Mrs. Allison turned to the decorator. "Why did I choose Early American?" "Because it's homey and inviting," said Mrs. Middy. "And because it is part of our national heritage." "You can quote me," Mrs. Allison said to Qwilleran with a generous gesture. She went to the sideboard. "Sure you don't want a drink? I'm going to have one myself." She poured a straight rye, and as the decorator showed the newsmen about the house, Mrs. Allison trailed after them, carrying her glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. Qwilleran made notes on crewelwork, dry sinks, and Queen Anne candlesticks. The photographer formed an attachment for a ship's figurehead over the living-room mantel — an old wood carving of a full-busted mermaid with chipped nose and peeling paint.