tu conduct studies in a different field. She wondered whether she could persuade Poul to call on their new neighbours.

Don't you think that the Court ought to be homosexual, well, just a little bit?< she asked vaguely and rather wildly.

«Yes, why not, dear,< Poul replied absentmindedly from behind his evening paper. He was not at all surprised, had, in fact, become unshockable ever ince Astrid embarked upon her psychological studies. He added unthinkingly, and, as it turned out, foolishly: »Young men often are very interesting.<< >>They are too sweet, she burst out more than pleased at his unexpected accommodating reaction. »You know, I do so want to put real life into the book, I thought that if I let the Court fall in love with the naked executioner on the gu lotine, perhaps you could help a little by

...«

Really, dear.<< Pour pretended to feel scandalized. This matter of collecting material for his wife's books was becoming tiresome. He still winced at the recollection of a certain incidence when she had wanted to know all about the reactions of a gigolo to a nymphomaniaca, sixty year old woman. It had not been amusing, and now this ...! He had an idea that homosexuality had something to do with unpleasant old men whose exhausted senses only could be stimulated by very small boys.

» only meant that you might call on the two young men one evening,<< she explained somewhat chastened, and looked down at her typewriter. Yourg?<< Pour inquired. He wanted assurance before he committed himself. Neither of them are more than twenty-five. ¦ have seen them both.<

Poul thought about it. »Would'nt it do to let the Count fall in love with the Baroness's daughter? You know, the girl who looks like Dorrit.

»No, it would not! Really, you have that girl or your mind all the time, and I do wish that you would stop interfering with my writting.<

>There is nothing that I'd like better, Poul retorted untruthfully, as he quite enjoyed the pretence of despising her collection of case histories.

>>You are just being unfair, Astrid stated firmly. »My God! It is not much that I ask you to do.<

>>Not much! Well, I find it rather depraved,< Poul replied, and thought himself very clever »But, if you absolutely insist...<

The following morning the glass house awoke to an atmosphere of tension, and prepared for a siege as yet not declared. Dorrit had stayed awake half the night, and was disappointed when no sound was heard from the bedroom of the two men to give her a welcome chance to wake her husband and voice her indignation. It usually ended very cozily whenever she aroused Frank from his sleep during the night. When, however, by half past four in the morning she had not heard any groans, snorts of laughter, or quarrels, she decided to postpone her revulsion and went to sleep with a grievance.

Frank had not fared much better. The thought of the two men next door seemed to have stimulated his virility to an astonishing degree, but somehow Dorrit was not a wholly satisfying object for a demonstration, and he began to refresh halfforgotten memoires of his schooldays. That morning he acted more manly than

ever, and to further guard himself against any suspicion, he confined his observations at the breakfast table to derrogaroty commerts on the world's pansies. He could have spared himself the effort. Dorrit was deep in her own thoughts, and what penetrated into her mind made her think him rather pompous. She decided that she had no more sugar in the house, ard that it would be necessary for her to pay the two young men a morning visit to borrow half a pound the nument Frank was out of the house on his way to town.

Astrid was more furtive, and had pushed the sofa up against the window. Starding on its back, bending forward and holding on to the curtain rod, she had the terrace of the two men under observation. The position was uncomfortable, exceedingly uncomfortable, in fact, but should those two come out to pluck roses and waltz around adorning each others hair, she would rather die than miss the sight. It was just what her novel on the revolution needed to become a bestseler with at least eighteen reprints.

Her enthusiasm infected Poul. He called up his office and reported a heavy cold. Astrid was pleased. Her post of observation on the back of the sofa, albeit strategica, progressively grew more uncomfortable. She easily persuaded Poul to take his turn on the back of the sofa, and they faithfully relieved each other every fifteen minutes. Not for years had they been so united in common purpose. Most of the morning, however, passed uneventfully, and Astrid began to tire. Her feet ached and her arms were stiff. Poul's interest, however, rather annoyir gly seemed to increase with each hour, and she was just about to give up when at last something happened.

»Poul!« she screamed unnecessarily, as he was standing right next to her. »Do lock! That silly idiot Dorrit is on her way in to them!<<

Pul joined hi wife on the back of the sofa and looked. It was quite true: Dorrit was slowly walking up the tiled walk leading to the deserted terrace, wearing a black, low-cut cocktail dress, an airy tulle stole over her shoulders. Astrid very nearly fell out of the window.

>>Well! It is absolutely outrageous! Have you ever seer anything so utterly shameless? What does she think she is going to get!<<

Their eyes clung to Dorrit as she proceeded up the steps to the terrace and knocked on the French door. The sofa swayed perilousy, as the dark-haired young man opened the door.

Astrid drew a sharp breath. »He is at least six feet eight,« she hissed, and regretted bitterly that she had forgotten to put un her glasses. She was just able to make out that he was wearing a lavenderblue shirt, open at the throat, but could not see whether that dark patch was a black undershirt, or whether it whas just hair She decided that it must be hair.

Poul was in a quandary. He was unable to make up his mind whether to watch the young mar or Dorrit. Everything seemed to happen so fast. There was just time to see the young man say something and then shut the door, very firmly. Drrit stood frozen for a moment and gazed unbelievingly at the closed door. Ther she turned, white with fury, her heels clattering like machine-gun fire over

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