of here and as much of your stuff as you can. If you aren't gone when I get back I'll kill you both."

Terry's eyes went wide. If Jack hadn't spoken so matter-of-factly; if he had cried or shouted or thrown things; Terry would have taken comfort in the familiar routine. But this was new and weird... and final.

"All right," Terry said, because he had to answer. "Whatever you say." He began to move around the room, picking things up aimlessly, tingling when he had to go near Jack. From the bed, like a mournful theme, came the moaning of the man with the broken nose.

"One more thing," Jack said, turning to face Terry from the bedroom door. "I won't pay any more of your bills. Don't use my name or address any more. I never want to hear from you again, Terry. No calls, no letters. Nothing. Clear?"

Terry straightened up from a dresser drawer the one with the socks and stray love notes in it-and answered meekly, "Clear."

Jack turned to go, but Terry called, "It's just that-we won't stay apart for long, Jackson. You know that, don't you?" He was standing with bunches of rolled socks in his hands, with the light from the dresser lamp gilding his blond hair. Jack looked hard at him, and remembred him that way in the months that followed. "You know that, Jack," he repeated.

"No. I don't."

"But you love me," said Terry. "We love each other. How can we drop each other for ever?"

"Simple," Jack said, paying in pain for pain. "Drop out that door. And don't ever drop in again.'

They looked at each other.

"Goodby, Terry," he said.

"So long, Jackson." Terry smiled faintly.

Jack had to turn on his heel and leave at once to keep from embracing him and taking it all back.

BOOKS

MEMORIES AND COMMEN. TARIES, by Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Doubleday & Co., 1960. $3.95, 167 pp. Are there any other balletomanes that lo these many years have wondered exactly what Nijinsky's costume indiscretion was that scandalized the Russian Dowager Queen?

It was "the tightest tights anyone had ever seen (it fact, an athletic support padded with handkerchiefs) and little else."

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It looks as if nobody but Stravinsky is going to write uninhibitedly about the fabulous Diaghlev and his fabulous entourage. This small book is not primarily about that, but the frank and witty asides are more gleanings than a homophile would reap in a year of reading biographies.

Stravinsky has a gift for the pithy personality word picture, and here are Gide, Ravel, Rolland, Cocteau, Auden, among many others.

The homophile element pops up like a chuckle all over the place. For instance, the last phrase of a discussion of Queens he has known is, "These are all the queens (of countries) I have known."

Stravinsky tells amusingly of Dia-

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