At about 1:15 I heard a car in the driveway, silence for a few minutes, then the slam of a car door, and Alison came bouncing in, bright-eyed and happy, with "I'm sorry you were tired, dear. Margot told me." I mixed her a nightcap as she relaxed into her chair at the other side of the fireplace. "John brought me home," she volunteered. I said I thought he would. “Oh, Frank, you're not annoyed, are you?" I assured her I wasn't, and that I just hoped she'd had a good time. "Oh, yes!" she said. I then told her I had noticed her and John outside and had been careful not to interrupt them. "Frank, you're such a sweetie, you know," with which she bounded over and dropped into my lap, throwing her arms around my neck and nuzzling into my cheek. She giggled. "It's funny cuddling up to someone wearing earrings and necklaces!”

After some moments of contented silence, I whispered "Did you make love with John?"

She pulled back, stiffened for a moment, and said rather primly, “I don't see what business it is of yours, after all, you seemed to be having a good time with Celia." I had to agree, adding ruefully that she became disgustingly drunk. Alison patted my thigh and said with mock pathos, "Poor old Frank." Then she looked intently at me, a muscle twitched in her face, and she burst out, “Oh for goodness' sake, YES, we did!” in answer to my earlier question. "I was so flattered, me, a busy subur- ban housewife, being chased by an attractive man. And by the time I should have stopped him I felt it would be embarrassing to him to... Anyway, by then I don't think I could have stopped him."

We looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing together. "Come on," I said, “let's have another nightcap because I love you so much." A few tears came to her eyes, and as I was mixing the drinks she came up behind me and embraced me tightly round my waist.

"And I love you, too. Very, very much." Then she changed tone, took the proffered drink, and asked, "How do you feel in your things now? Aren't your shoes pinching you?" I assured her they weren't. She went on, "So many people told me how terrific they thought you were." She told me about Greta's remarks after I'd talked to her. I asked, "Why do women always want to know what a man dressed as a woman is wearing underneath?" She thought for a moment. “Oh, I suppose they somehow feel a man is invading their privacy and the ultimate intrusion comes with assuming their most intimate garments. Some sort of masochism on their part, I suppose. I mean, men wear jewelery with modern male

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