"I travel a good deal," explained Stephen. "Last winter I was in Bermuda and then in the Virgin Islands. We take a crew with us and take photographs with local settings. You know, the happy couple having cocktails on the moonlit terrace of the Carib-Hilton and waiters bowing all over the place."

"Wonderful!" Jim exclaimed. "You must have a wonderful job, sir, that lets you go places like those in the winter or at any other time!"

"Well," said Stephen ruefully, "it would be wonderful if I had time to lie on the beach and admire the view. As it is, I spend most of my time on the run, trying to make schedules and getting everybody in the same place at the right time."

They continued to talk about planes and flights, about jobs and Bermuda and St. Thomas, and by the time the car reached Miss Laughton's small but expensive house, Stephen had forgotten his uneasiness. Still, he was looking forward to those drinks.

They were good, thought Stephen, as he began on his second vodka martini. He noticed that Jim was drinking tomato juice.

"That isn't tomato juice entirely," said Miss Laughton with disconcerting perception. "It's what an unbearably elegant friend of mine always calls a 'Marie Sanglante.' I allow Jim to have one drink before dinner. After all, he's practically nineteen."

"Not for nine months, Aunt Mary," smiled her nephew.

"Well, you're certainly old enough to learn to drink properly. I have little patience with people, including your father, who drink while telling their half-grown children that it's 'wrong'." She gave a mock-serious sigh. "I wish I could still indulge."

The little French clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past six.

"Jim, dear, will you take Cousin Stephen and his suitcase upstairs to

his room, please? Then, after he's settled, you can finish your drinks and have dinner. Patty said she'd have it ready at seven. She also assured me, Stephen, that everything in your room is in order. I can't go up the stairs, you know, without making a very great occasion of it. I know that Jim will see to it that you have everything you need."

Watching the boy walking up the stairs ahead of him, Stephen admired his straight back and the set of his shoulders. He was tremendously attractive. Oh, well.

The house was not large, but Stephen remembered that it had three bedrooms, one downstairs. As he followed Jim down the short hall, Stephen glimpsed through an open door a room with the chaotic appurtenances of paper hangers: ladders, dust sheets, and rolls and rolls of paper. Jim opened another door and flipped on the light. It was a pretty room, although obviously furnished by a woman: a four-poster with a blue chintz dust ruffle and canopy, a soft rose carpet, blue-flowered wallpaper, and white organdy curtains at the two windows.

Jim set the suitcase on a luggage rack at the foot of the one double bed.

"The bathroom's through that door, sir, and you can hang your things in the closet there. I've moved some of my stuff into the other bedroom closet, so I hope you have enough room."

Stephen gulped physically this time. "Is this-is this your room?"

don't mind sharing a bed? The other Jim smiled. "Yes, sir. I hope you bedroom's all mucked up with wallpaper." He opened the bathroom door. "Well, if you want to wash, your towels are the blue ones. I'll see you downstairs, sir." He paused. "Oh, sir? Maybe we'd better not mention the wallpaper. Aunt Mary's sort of upset