il they had taken in a movie, and stopped by
to dance a while. "I hardly ever gedt to see you eddy bore," she said.
"All because of that dasty bedicide you're givig people."

It was true, of course. The work at the lab was endless. They danced,
but came home early nevertheless. Phillip needed all the sleep he could
get.

He awoke once during the night to a parade of sneezes from his wife, and
rolled over, frowning sleepily to himself. It was ignominious, in a
way--his own wife refusing the fruit of all those months of work.

And cold or no cold, she surely was using a whale of a lot of perfume.

* * * * *

He awoke, suddenly, began to stretch, and sat bolt upright in bed,
staring wildly about the room. Pale morning sunlight drifted in the
window. Downstairs he heard Ellie stirring in the kitchen.

For a moment he thought he was suffocating. He leaped out of bed, stared
at the vanity table across the room. "_Somebody's spilled the whole
damned bottle--_"

The heavy sick-sweet miasma hung like a cloud around him, drenching the
room. With every breath it grew thicker. He searched the table top
frantically, but there were no empty bottles. His head began to spin
from the sickening effluvium.

He blinked in confusion, his hand trembling as he lit a cigarette. No
need to panic, he thought. She probably knocked a bottle over when she
was dressing. He took a deep puff, and burst into a paroxysm of coughing
as acrid fumes burned down his throat to his lungs.

"Ellie!" He rushed into the hall, still coughing. The match smell had
given way to the harsh, caustic stench of burning weeds. He stared at
his cigarette in horror and threw it into the sink. The smell grew
worse. He threw open the hall closet, expecting smoke to come billowing
out. "Ellie! Somebody's burning down the house!"

"Whadtever are you talking about?" Ellie's voice came from the stair
well. "It's just the toast I burned, silly."

He rushed down the stairs two at a time--and nearly gagged as he reached
the bottom. The smell of hot, rancid grease struck him like a solid
wall. It was intermingled with an oily smell of boiled and parboiled
coffee, overpowering in its intensity. By the time he reached the
kitchen he was holding his nose, tears pouring from his eyes. "_Ellie,
what are you doing in here?_"

She stared at him. "I'b baking breakfast."

"But don't you _smell_ it?"

"Sbell whadt?" said Ellie.

On the stove th