"It's me, Barbara," Howard said, quite unnecessarily.

"So I see," she said, instantly hearing the inanity in her voice.

"May I come in, or... have you guests?"

She closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it fully.

"Come in, Howard."

"Thank you," he said.

"I'm having a drink," she said. "Would you like one? What do you want?"

"Scotch would be fine, thank you."

"You're welcome to a scotch, but that's not what I meant to ask."

"Oh. Yes, I see. I wanted to talk to you."

"Well, come in the kitchen while I make your drink. We can talk there."

"Thank you," Howard said, and then asked, "I'm not interrupting anything am I? Interfering with your plans?"

"My plans are to go to bed," she said. "I've had a busy day."

She poured whiskey in a glass and handed it to him. With the familiarity of a husband, he turned to the refrigerator, found ice, and then squatted looking for the little bottles of Canada Dry soda habitually stored on the lower shelf.

His bald spot is getting bigger.

He opened the soda bottle, mixed his drink, and stirred it with his index finger. Then he raised his eyes to hers.

"I know," he said. "I was here earlier."

"Cutesy-poo think of something else of mine she wanted from the house?"

"I was worried about you," he said.

"I'm touched, but there is no cause for concern. I was visiting friends in Jersey."

"I know about him, Barbara," Howard said evenly.

Oh my God!

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I know about you and the-young soldier."

Not very much. John is a Marine, not a soldier.

"And I said, 'I beg your pardon?' "

"Honey..."

"Don't you call me 'Honey,' you sonofabitch!"

"Sorry."

He took a swallow of his drink.

"Barbara, you're well known in Philadelphia," he said.

"You must have known that someone would see you, recognize you..."

Great, now I will be known as the Whore of Babylon as well as Poor Barbara, whose husband dumped her for young Cutesy-poo.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Who saw me? What soldier?"

"The young one," he said. "The one you had dinner with two nights ago in the restaurant in the Warwick."

"God," she heard herself say, "people have such filthy minds!"

"I don't understand that," Howard said.

"I'm guilty, Howard. I did have dinner in the Warwick two nights ago. But he's not a soldier. He's a Marine."

"What's the difference?"

"In this case, the difference is I'm nearly old enough to be his mother."

"You're not that old," he said. "You're thirty-eight."

Thirty-six, Goddamn you!

"I had dinner with Bill Marston's nephew, Johnny Moore. He's a sergeant in the Marines and about to go overseas, since you seem so hungry for the sordid details. And if I had had him when I was eighteen, I would be old enough to be his mother. He's eighteen. Or maybe nineteen."

"How did that come about?"

"I don't even know why I'm discussing this with you," Barbara said. "You have given up any right to question anything I do. I would love to know who carried this obscene gossip to you, though."

"Friends," he said.

"Some friends!"

"The same friends who have been telling me all along that I was making an ass of myself with Louise," Howard said.

She met his eyes.

"Tell me about this... young man, Barbara."

"I'll be damned! What if I said, 'tell me about Louise, Howard'?"

"Then I would say it's all over," he said.

"Since when?"

"Since about nine o'clock this morning," Howard said. "I told her I was going to see you, and she said if I came over here, it was all over between us. And... here I am."

"You've been trying to find me all day?"

He nodded.

After a moment, Barbara asked, "What did you think you were going to do here?"

"I realize that I've hurt you, Barbara..."

"Huh!" she snorted.

"I didn't want you to hurt yourself."

She exhaled audibly.

"With... my young man, you mean?"

He nodded.

"Bill Marston found out that Johnny's father was-I don't know how to put this-fooling around with Johnny's trust fund."

"His father? Who's his father?"

"The Reverend John Wesley Moore," Barbara said. "He's with that Methodist Missions thing. What do they call it? The Harris Methodist Missions to the Unchurched, something like that."

"The missionaries, right? In the Orient someplace?"

"Right."

"What about it?"

"Bill Marston found out that Johnny's father had not turned over a trust fund from his grandparents to the boy. So, since the boy is on his way overseas, he decided he had to tell him. And did."

"The father, the minister, was stealing the kid's money?" Howard asked.

He's interested. More important, he believes me.

"I don't know if 'stealing' is the right word, but he didn't turn it over to him when he should have."

"I'll be damned!" Howard said, outraged.

He's really angry. Why am I surprised? Before Cutesy-poo came along, he never did anything dishonorable.

"So the boy was upset, obviously," Barbara said. "He's really very sweet. He's on a home leave before going overseas, and he couldn't even go home."

"That's absolutely despicable!"

"So I felt sorry for him. And had dinner with him. And took him to the movies."

"Where was the boy staying?"

"Bill got him a room in the Union League."

"And that's where you heard about this?"

"Yes. I met Bill on Broad Street. He was with the boy. And he insisted I have a drink with them..."

"In his cups again, I suppose?"

"Don't be too hard on Bill, Howard. It was a terribly hard thing for him to have to do."

"I've always liked Bill Marston. He just can't handle the sauce, that's all."

He's not at all suspicious. He wants to believe what I'm telling him. He's a fool. Obviously. Otherwise Cutesy-poo couldn't have got her claws into him the way she did.

"Where's the boy now?"

"On his way to the Pacific. That's what I was really doing in New Jersey today, Howard. Putting him on the plane. Bill couldn't get off..."

"That was very kind of you, Barbara."

"He had nobody, Howard. I have never felt more sorry for anyone in my life."

"I should have known it was something like this. I'm sorry, Barbara."

"It's all right."

He smiled at her.

"I'm sorry things... didn't work out between you and Louise."

"And I would expect you to say something like that," he said. "It could have been worse. I could have actually married her."

"And it's really all over?"

"It's really all over."

"So what are you going to do?"

He looked at his watch and drained his glass.

"I don't really know. Except that right now, I'm going to leave here and see if I can catch the 9:28 to Swarthmore," he said.