was good enough for her, and saved all need of thinking; a
woman needed a husband, her place was in the home, marriage was
forever, and what would the neighbors think? Anyhow, she'd have had
difficulty being unfaithful, even if she tried. She'd been gaining
some ten pounds every year for the eleven years they had been married,
and she'd long since stopped worrying about taking care of her
appearance.

He looked up at her now, letting the book drop to his lap. She sat
watching the television screen with a vacant look on her face, while
some comic went through a tired routine. If she enjoyed it, there was
no sign, though she spent half her life in front of the screen. Then
the comic went off, and dancers came on. She went back to darning a
pair of his socks, as seriously as if she didn't know that he had
always refused to wear the lumpy results. Her stockings had runs, and
she still wore the faded apron in which she'd cooked supper.

He contrasted her with Shirley unconsciously, and shuddered. In the
year since Shirley Bates had come to work in his rare book store, he'd
done a lot of such shuddering, and never because of the slim blonde
warmth of his assistant. Since that hot day in August when they'd
closed the shop early and he'd suggested a ride in the country to cool
off, he and Shirley....

He was interrupted in his more pleasant thoughts by the crash of
scissors onto the floor, and his eyes focussed on the deepening folds
of fat as Emma bent to retrieve them. "Company coming," she said,
before he could think of anything to prevent the mistaken cliche. Then
she became aware that he was staring at her. "Did you take the garbage
out, Henry?"

"Yes, dear," he answered woodenly. Then, because he knew it was coming
anyhow, he filled in the inevitable. "Cleanliness is next to
godliness."

She nodded solemnly, and began putting aside her darning. "That's
finished. Mama always said a stitch in time saves nine. If you'd cut
your toenails, Henry...."

He could feel his skin begin to tingle with irritation. But there was
no escape. If he went upstairs to his bedroom, she'd be up at once,
puttering about. If he went to the basement, she'd find the canned
food needed checking. A woman's place was with her husband, as she'd
repeatedly told him. Probably she couldn't stand her own company,
either.

Then he remembered something he'd stored away. "There's a new picture
at the Metro," he said as quietly as he could. "Taylor