little. It's the damnedest thing! Everybody's in love with
the wrong people--I mean ten times as bad as usual. Of course, not
everybody. Take my wife--she's got it bad, but she's still in love with
_me_. So it could be worse."

* * * * *

"What do you mean?" Murt asked, raising his head.

"I mean it's bad enough for the poor woman to have the guy she wants.
It's the jealousy angle. Every minute I'm away, she sits at home
wondering if I'm faithful. Calls me up six times a shift. I don't dare
take her out anyplace. Every time another female comes in sight, she
starts worrying. Kate's a damned good wife, always has been, or I
wouldn't be putting up with it. That's what's happening to a lot of
marriages. Some guys get fed up and start looking around. About that
time, the bug bites _them_ and look out, secretary!"

"But it's not her fault," Murt said emphatically.

"I know," Curly shrugged. "A lot of people don't make any allowances for
it, though. You know Peter, the elevator boy? He and his wife both got
it. For a while it was okay, but I guess they finally drove themselves
nuts, keeping tabs on each other. Now they can't stand to be together
and they can't stand to be apart. Poor joker ran the cage past the
basement limit-switch three times today and had to be bailed out of the
shaft. Mr. Johnson said he'd fire him if he could get another boy."

The implication was shocking to Murt. He had supposed that unhappiness
would stem principally from cases of unrequited love, such as his own,
but it was apparent that the disease magnified the painful aspects of
mutual love as well. Over-possessiveness and jealousy were common reefs
of marriage, so it was hardly illogical that the divorce courts were as
busy as the marriage license bureaus, after all.

* * * * *

It helped a little to immerse himself in the troubles of others, but,
after another double Scotch, he went to his apartment and immediately
fell into despondency. The desire to phone Phyllis was almost
overpowering, though he knew talking to her wouldn't help. Instead, he
dressed and went to dinner. The club boasted a fine chef, but the food
tasted like mucilage.

Later, he went to the bar and drank excessively. Yet he had to take a
sedative to get to sleep.

He awoke in a stupor at ten o'clock. His phone was jangling
persistently. It was Phyllis Sutton, and her face showed sharp concern.

"Are you