ent over his drafting board one cold night in March, John found his mind straying uncontrollably. He had gotten the new job and a substantial raise, he found his new work absorbing, yet he had never felt more alone. Gloria and her family had not come for Christmas. They had pleaded inclement weather as their excuse, but John felt instinctively that the older folk had not been able to face such a dislocation from the comforts of their home, and that Gloria had been unable to take the trip without them. Except for a handsome gift from Gloria, he had not heard from her since before the holidays. For weeks he had been concentrating almost exclusively upon the skills required for his new occupation. He was seldom out except for the trips to and from his work. He had begun to feel worn and frayed under the grinding routine, still he was fearful of looking outside its confines to the vacancy which stared at him from the world beyond. For several evenings, only the most dogged efforts kept him at his study. Tonight his powers of concentration were failing him completely. Distracting images rambled on and on through his imagination, blotting out his work. It was nine-thirty, and further effort seemed out of the question. He began putting away his pens and rulers, debating with himself, meanwhile, what he might do for some diversion. Still uncertain, he was putting on his coat to go out, when the doorbell rang. Who could that be, he thought his mind running over the scanty possibilities. He opened the door, prepared with a courteous rebuff. But he did not recognize the figure which stood there in the dimly-lighted hallway. Wearing a heavy blue turtle-neck sweater and baggy slacks, with close-cropped hair atop features of indeterminate sex, it might have been boy or girl, man or woman. The visitor saved him the trouble of making inquiries by gliding swiftly past him into the room, then turning around to face him under the brightness of the lamp. A frightening nausea seized John's stomach and his head spun, as he saw before him the almost living likeness of Greg.

"Hello, John . . ." the face smiled and spoke. It was Gloria's voice. John gazed appalled at this apparition, while his eyes travelled the full length of her figure and back again . . . the dark curls, cut in the style which Greg had worn, the thick, loose sweater (one, in fact, which Greg had bought for himself the winter before), the trousers, the mocassins. No make-up covered her fresh complexion, and except for a more diminutive frame, and the lightly-rounded breasts, the illusion was complete. John stood paralyzed as much by the shock of her appearance as by the surprise of her visit. While he struggled to collect himself, Gloria fished in a pocket of her slacks, produced a cigarette, and calmly lit it. At this, John rallied to his senses in a fever of indignation, sputtering and almost shouting at his guest.

"Gloria...! You get back to wherever you came from and change out of that damnable outfit this instant! Do you hear me? You... you look like one of those characters down at Leddy's. Have you gone totally mad...?" He stopped, excitement making further speech momentarily impossible. A few months before, Gloria would have wilted under John's wrath, and run to obey him like a dutiful younger sister. But this Gloria was a new Gloria, in more ways than appearance only. She stood calmly, arms akimbo, entirely unabashed, her face and eyes shining into John's. "How deliciously stupid you are, dear," was her first remark. Then, "You know, it's quite a coincidence, your mentioning Leddy's, because I just came from there." The kindness of her voice softened the careless frankness of her words. By now, John had closed the door and taken off his coat.