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knee-high rainboots, thanked Capricorn for the.. like groovy party and left without telling her hostess that she had in fact already met or was it encountered—the ubiquitous Mister Box. She had quickly discovered that he was quite the royal thing-coming-on a bit too heavy and wanting to "cut a rug" as he put it! Cass mentally dubbed him Earl the Virile. Gosh, she thought as the elevator sank to the lobby twenty floors below, he was really something else. . . took an awful lot for granted pulling my hair like that-yanked out at least a dozen or so actual strands of my real blonde tresses. She concluded that Capricorn must have been given wrong information about that cat! And that Capricorn, she thought, telling me not to do anything she wouldn't do - doesn't leave much to choose from.

As Cass stepped from the elevator, the doorman lowered his copy of The New York Daily News, studied Cass, dropped his cool, dropped the paper altogether, fumbled for an umbrella beneath his cane chair and scrambled to the plate-glass door.

"Raining," he smiled, nodding toward the drenched street.

"Golly! Is that what all that wet is?” said Cass in mock surprise.

"Can I call you a cab?”

"Good grief! Do I look like a cab?" Cass quipped, flashing her small white teeth in a devastating smile.

"It's pouring," said the befuddled doorman, attempting to return her smile.

Cass pointed across the street to her dark green Continental Mark III which at that moment looked more like a small aircraft carrier as it floated rim-deep in a huge puddle. The doorman held the umbrella aloft as they dashed between parked cars and crossed the street. She hastily unlocked the door, slid inside and opened the window.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome Miss." The doorman stood gazing at her through the rain.

"It was very sweet of you."