Transvestia

on such an occasion.

Sam was saying: "You must find it terribly dull in that office a girl like you just typing, typing, typing. It must be pretty uninteresting."

"Oh, it's not, really. You'd be surprised."

He smiled tolerantly. I'm sure I would!

"But you would, you know. Why, I often have really fascinating letters to type." Again he smiled, ironically. So, as if spurred on by his unbelief, she continued:

"Well, for example, there was one today about a new type of detergent, and one about the character of the Chinese Premier, and one to Dr. Caravelle funny letter that was all in figures and algebra and one about the incidence of albinism in the African pygmies terribly interesting, it was."

Her escort smiled again. "I'm sure it was, dear. If you like that sort of thing. Can't say I do, although I would rather like to meet old John again."

"John?" She concealed a little thrill of something unpleasant. Was it fear? disappointment?

"John Caravelle," said Sam Farian casually. "He's an old friend of mine, but we got out of touch, some- how, and I seem to have lost his address. I don't sup- pose you happen to remember it?" His manner was ra- ther nonchalant, not very interested at all. But- and here Jenny suppressed a little tremor - he had asked the question about John Caravelle's address. And he was not, and never had been, a friend of John Cara- velle. Jenny was the only other person in the world who could be sure of that, and she was quite sure.

She heard herself answering with just the right shade of regret:

"No, I'm afraid I don't remember the address.' Was it disappointment that flickered on his face,