"I hope you have to go home like that," she said. "Serves you right."

"Listen," I said furiously, "my luncheon with Miss Johnson was strictly in the line of business. We went to Mizner Park because she had heard of it and wanted to see it. It was a simple business luncheon, and that's all it was. I don't expect you to believe that, but I'd like to remind you that some time ago you and I vowed to have an open relationship. Both of us could see and consort with whomever we wished. Isn't that correct?"

Unexpectedly she amiably agreed. "You're right, Archy. My first reaction, after Mercedes Blair told me of seeing you at the Bistro L'Europe-she was having a pizza at Baci-was to hire a hit man and have you blown away. But that, I decided, was a childish reaction. Archy, I have made up my mind. From now on you are completely free to share lunch or dinner or anything else with whomever you please. And I promise not to be jealous or to attack you physically in retaliation."

"Well put," I said enthusiastically.

"And in return, I expect the same consideration from you."

"Granted," I said. "And gladly."

"Good," she said. "Because tomorrow night I'm having dinner at the Ocean Grand with Binky Watrous."

Outrage detonated. "Binky Watrous!" I cried. "But he's a close friend of mine!"

"I know," Connie said calmly. "And I do believe he hopes to become a close friend of mine."

"I should warn you," I said darkly, "his table manners are not of the most delicate. He's been known to suck his teeth while slurping a beef ragout."

"I think I can endure it," she said, "after seeing you manhandle a stuffed avocado. And on Saturday night I have a movie date with Ferdy Attenborough."

"Ferdy?" I almost shouted. "Another old buddy! Connie, how can you possibly be seen in public with that man? He has an Adam's apple that looks like he swallowed an elbow."

"I think he's charming," she said. "In any event, the choice is mine, is it not?"

"Yes, yes," I said irascibly, finally getting my shirttail freed from the zipper. "But I question your choice. I fear you are doomed to grievous disappointment."

"No problem," she said cheerfully. "There are plenty of others waiting in the wings. Surely you have no objections, do you?"

"Of course not," I said, stiff-upper-lipping it.

"As Shakespeare said, all's fair in love and war."

"It was Smedley," I said, "but you're quite right. I hope you have a merry time."

"I intend to," she said evenly.

I did not kiss her a fond good-night.

I drove home in a tumultuous mood. Binky Watrous! Ferdy Attenborough! And perhaps scores of unnamed others waiting in the wings. I was shocked, shocked. Naturally I wished Consuela Garcia all the happiness in the world, but the thought of her sharing her felicity with other johnnies was a tad discombobulating. More than a tad if you must know the truth.

I entered my home through the kitchen, making certain to relock the back door. I paused a moment in the kitchen to pick up a cold bottle of St. Pauli Girl from the fridge. I toted it upstairs, moving as quietly as I could on our creaky staircase. Then I was alone in my own chambers-no French dolls on the pillows-but in no mood for sleep. I believe I mentioned previously that I was bewitched by Theo Johnson's conduct. Connie's revelations completed the triumvirate; I was now also bothered and bewildered.

Binky and Ferdy? Good pals, of course, but birdbrains!

I found Ms. Garcia's declaration of her intentions totally incomprehensible. I mean we had enjoyed so many jolly times together that I saw no reason for her to seek male companionship elsewhere. How could she possibly find another chap who can match my repertoire of ribald limericks?

I opened my bottle of beer and sat behind my desk. I was still fully clothed and still broody. It just seemed so unfair of Connie, so unjust, so un-everything. Oh, I may have a few minor faults; I admit I am not a perfect swain-but then what man is?

But after a few swigs of brew I began to regain that cool detachment I have always proudly considered an integral part of my character. I frankly acknowledged I was suffering a twinge, a wee twinge, of jealousy, which I had heretofore believed myself incapable of feeling.

Even worse, I realized, I was guilty of an unconscionable possessiveness. I expected fidelity from Connie, with no desire to provide faithfulness in return. A rank injustice, obviously, and moreover a distressing breach of civilized behavior. I should be ashamed.

But I wasn't. Because I recognized too clearly my limitations. I mean I could not soar like a condor, could I? Nor play "Turkey in the Straw" on a zither. Nor remain loyal to one woman. In other words, without the vilest form of hypocrisy, I could not be what I was not. It was a quandary.

Amidst all this muzzy meditation I slid a cassette of Cole Porter tunes into my player, clamping earphones to my noggin so as not to disturb my parents whose bedroom was directly below. And as I listened to all that evocative music I tried to distinguish between True Love, romantic love, and affection. Precise definitions escaped me.

And so the night dwindled down as I sat alone, sipping beer, and brooding about love and women and my own incapacity to make a permanent commitment. After a time I realized the poignant songs I was hearing impinged on my perplexities.

How about "Just One of Those Things"?

Or "From This Moment On"?

But the one that summed up my private philosophy most accurately, I mournfully concluded, was "Anything Goes."

I awoke late on Friday morning, as you may have surmised, and after a comforting breakfast of kippers and scrambled eggs I arrived at the office a little before noon. I resolutely shelved my personal problems for the nonce. When duty calls, McNally is not one to cup his ear and mutter, "Eh?"

I called the phone number of Mrs. Jane Folsby, provided by Jamie Olson, and waited for seven rings. I was about to hang up when a woman said, somewhat breathlessly, "Hello, hello, hello?"

It was a rich voice, totally unlike Mrs. Folsby's chirp, and I guessed it might be her sister.

"Could I speak to Mrs. Jane Folsby, please?" I said.

"May I ask who's calling?"

When I hear that I'm always tempted to say, "Yes, you may," and then wait. But it didn't seem a ripe time for fraternity house humor, so I merely said, "Archy McNally," and hoped for the best.

"Just a minute," she said.

It was more than a minute but I used the time profitably to light my first English Oval of the day, and what a treat it was. Finally the chirper came on the line.

"Mr. McNally!" she said. "How nice to hear from you. How on earth did you find me?"

"My spies are everywhere," I said. "How are you, Mrs. Folsby?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Glad to hear it. I was sorry to learn you had left the Hawkins."

"Sorry?" she said. "No need for that because I'm not. After Mr. Hawkin passed I knew it was time for me to go."

I waited for more but she didn't seem inclined to offer any additional information.

"Mrs. Folsby," I said, "I have a question I hope you may be able to answer. Do you happen to know where Silas Hawkin purchased his art supplies?"

"Why, certainly," she answered. "He bought all his canvas and paints and things from Grabow's right here in West Palm Beach."

"Grabow's," I repeated. "That's a big help. Thank you so much." I hesitated a moment, wondering if I dared push her. I decided to take the chance. "Tell me, Mrs. Folsby," I said as sympathetically as I could, "what was your reason for leaving the Hawkins? I hope there was no unpleasantness."

"Mr. McNally," she said sharply, "there are certain things a lady doesn't talk about."