but he learned nothing more. Donald Fairfield was sulky and
uncommunicative, muttering only over and over again that he had already
said too much and Lord knew what would become of him when he got back
but he didn't see what else he could have done under the circumstances
and no one else had ever gotten into such a fix why the hell did it have
to happen to him, a quiet and thoughtful and considerate man who
wouldn't swat a fly, or anyhow not a pregnant fly. This opened up an
entire new line of discussion. Mimi didn't know, in reply to his query,
whether flies got pregnant or not. At least, she had never seen one.
Donald was forced into a short lecture, barely remembered from second
year biology, but it seemed to satisfy them. "We don't have lower forms
of life at home, you know," Donald apologized.

On days when he didn't come to their home for supper, Mimi would have
the last appointment of the day with him, and after her hour they would
leave together, waking up Margaret before they left the office, stop off
for cocktails before Mimi had to catch her train, miss the train, have
dinner, miss the next train, catch a show or walk in the park, drive
Mimi home, and finally part. They talked a lot, they talked seemingly
without reserve, but Victor learned nothing new. Her life before that
train ride was simply a blank.

"I'd like to try hypnotism," Victor said to her one day in his office.

"No," she replied.

He was surprised. "I don't think you understand," he said. "I want to
hypnotize you and try to take you back before that train ride, back to
your childhood--"

"No," she said.

"It's perfectly safe," he said.

She filed a rough edge off her nail, second finger, right hand.

"It's standard analytic procedure. I've used it dozens of times. I'm
quite competent--"

"No," she said.

"But why not?" he asked.

"You'll find out all about me," she said. "I'll have no secrets left."

"But you shouldn't want to have any secrets from your psychoanalyst. I
can't help you then."

"Perhaps," she agreed. "But I want to have secrets from you," she said
softly, and looked up quietly from her fingers, staring directly into
his eyes, and her lips and her eyes underwent that mysterious
synchronization once again. "I don't want you to know me like a book,
with everything spelled out in black and white, but like a portrait,
with hidden shades and nuances.... I want you to know me gradually,
slowly...."

"Mimi," he said, a