THE telephone was ringing, but Louise Reeves had her girdle only halfway on. Billows of white flesh were foaming at the waistband. She couldn't stop now. No matter who that was.

"Will you get it, Essie?" she shouted toward the hall. "And tell them I'll call back?" She glanced at her watch. "No. Better say I've left. Gone to the airport to meet the Governor. After that, I'll be at the Museum."

At the Museum. I like the sound of that, she thought as she flicked her hip and yanked the girdle higher. After all that I've been through with that mousy little pedant, I still like the sound of that: Mrs. Reeves is—at the Museum. Not,—on the golf course. Not,—in the garden. But more often than not,— at the Museum.