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I don’t know of what.”
    â€œOh, you’re just cynical. So many people are cynical. My mother often says to me, Mollie dear, you were born smil­ing and you’ll probably go out smiling.”
    Meecham shuddered. “Lucky girl.”
    â€œYes, I am lucky. I simply can’t help looking at the cheer­ful side.”
    â€œGood for you.”
    The women’s section of the cell-block was empty except for Virginia. Miss Jennings unlocked the door. “Here’s that man again, Mrs. Barkeley.”
    Virginia was sitting on her narrow cot reading, or pre­tending to read, a magazine. She was wearing the yellow wool dress and brown sandals that Meecham had brought to her the previous afternoon, and her black hair was brushed carefully back from her high forehead. She had used Miss Jennings’ lipstick to advantage, painting her mouth fuller and wider than it actually was. In the light of the single overhead bulb her flesh looked smooth and cold as marble. Meecham found it impossible to imagine what emotions she was feeling, or what was going on be­hind her remote and beautiful eyes.
    She raised her head and gave him a long unfriendly stare that reminded him of Mrs. Hamilton, though there was no physical resemblance between the mother and daughter.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Barkeley.”
    â€œWhy don’t you get me out of here?” she said flatly.
    â€œI’m trying.”
    He stepped inside and Miss Jennings closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it. She retired to the end of the room and sat down on a bench near the exit door. She hummed a few bars of music, very casually, to indicate to Meecham and Virginia that she had no intention of eaves­dropping. I’ll take the high road . . .
    â€œShe sings,” Virginia said. “She whistles. She quoted poetry. She’s so cheerful it drives me crazy. You’ve got to get me out of here.”
    â€œI’m trying.”
    â€œYou said that before.”
    â€œNow I’m repeating it. Mind if I sit down?”
    â€œI don’t care.”
    He sat down at the foot of the cot. “How’s your hang­over?”
    â€œIt’s all right. But they’ve got fleas or something in here. I have more of those red welts all over my ankles. Did you remember to bring the DDT?”
    â€œSure.” He took the small bottle of DDT out of his over­coat pocket and gave it to her.
    She read the label, frowning. “It’s only two percent.”
    â€œI couldn’t get it any stronger.”
    â€œYou could.”
    â€œAll right, but I didn’t.”
    â€œWhat were you afraid of, that I’d drink it in remorse or something?”
    â€œIt occurred to me,” Meecham said. “Now don’t get ex­cited. Your mother will be here soon.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œNine-thirty.”
    â€œDo I—do I look all right?”
    â€œYou look fine. Very pretty, in fact.”
    â€œDon’t say that. I know I’m not pretty.”
    Meecham smiled. “We disagree about so many things, let’s not disagree about that. Where did you get the cock­eyed idea that you’re not pretty?”
    â€œI know I’m not. We won’t discuss it.”
    â€œAll right.” He offered her a cigarette and she shook her head in refusal. “Let’s discuss Cordwink. Give him a statement today and you’ll be out . . .”
    â€œI wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Her lips tightened. “I know what I’m doing. If I refuse to tell Cordwink anything, he won’t have anything to trip me up with later on.”
    â€œThat argument is sound but rather limited.”
    â€œBesides, now that my mother’s here, she’ll handle every­thing.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œWait and see.”
    â€œYour mother,” Meecham said dryly, “is undoubtedly a strong and persevering woman, but she can’t