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wouldn’t let her admit it, however. Whenever she called Eddy, reversing the charges at his insistence, he was so full of his own enthusiasm that she was almost forced to respond in kind. When she talked to Lara, which she often did, especially on Sunday’s creeping afternoons,she dared not even hint at anything less than perfect satisfaction, for Lara would only urge her, and ultimately even nag her, to come home.
    One Sunday she got into the car and drove, idling along with no purpose except to pass the time. In the Memorial section the big, substantial houses spread their wings under the shade. On quiet streets nursemaids pushed perambulators while little boys and girls on their tricycles peddled alongside. Blue pools glistened, and people sat together under gay umbrellas.
    In River Oaks the houses were even larger and farther apart, Jaguars and Mercedes stood before impressive entrances, and unmarred lawns were green as a billiard table. A group of young people—about Connie’s own age—wearing tennis whites crossed the road and ran behind a house. One of the girls had a black ponytail tied with a red ribbon. It bobbed as she ran. There was something happy in the way it bobbed. And a feeling of desolation came over Connie; it felt as if, while she was standing in a crowd, everyone had suddenly turned his back to ostracize her.
    She drove around the block, sped through the bleak downtown, and emerged upon a wide avenue on which stood great hotels among brilliant flowers, blazing in the sunlight. People, always people, in groups and pairs, were going in and coming out.
    Back in her own room she could either read or turn on the television. Or else she could sit in the yard with the Raymonds and the family from the upstairs condo, two tired parents and two quarrelsome children. Or, she could stop off somewhere for a hamburger and a shake.… Instead, she swung the car into a hotel driveway and got out.
    In spite of all the people who came and went, the lofty lobby was uncrowded. And she recognized a touch of amusement at herself for acting as if she had walked into a palace. It was only a hotel, and she was a hick, a rube, a bumpkin, staring at the chandeliers, the silk tapestries, the leather luggage on the carts, the diamond-studded watches in the jeweler’s display window—staring at everything.
    Presently, she went farther in, sat down, ordered tea, and watched the parade. She had been sitting long enough to have a second cup when a young woman on the banquette beside her spoke up.
    “I hope you won’t think me awfully rude, but I’ve been admiring your dress. I always love black and white, and I’ve been looking all over without finding a thing.”
    Obviously, she was hoping that Connie would say where she had bought the dress, and so, mindful of her employer’s injunction, Connie did so.
    “I might have guessed. Well, that place is far too rich for my blood.”
    The honest admission brought forth an honest response. “For mine too. I only work there, and sometimes they let me get something at cost.”
    “Lucky you! I’ve just given notice on my job. I’m getting married and moving to Dallas.”
    “And lucky you! Getting married, I mean.”
    “I know. He’s wonderful. By the way, my name’s Margaret Ames.”
    “Connie Osborne.”
    A dialogue was now begun. Connie was starved for talk and the other, being euphoric, was also eager for it. By the end of half an hour intimate opinions, about clothes and hair and life in general, were being exchanged.
    “I hope I can find a job in Dallas as good as the one I’ve had,” said Margaret Ames.
    “Oh? What do you do?”
    “I’m at a country club, in charge of parties, lunches, weddings, dinners, stuff like that. I go over menus with people. I do it all. It’s really great.”
    “Well, my job’s pretty good, but I wouldn’t call it great.” And Connie confided, “The problem is, I don’t meet anybody. It’s hard, being in a strange city.”
    “I