"Sure," he said. He sat up with her. She ran her hand lightly over his face, brushing the scars, the flatness of his nose.

"Gorilla," she said, and she kissed him softly on the mouth. "You tore off one of my b.u.t.tons, you ape."

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Columbus," he said, speaking with a Spanish accent. "It is a very nice day today. Very sunny."

"Yes," she said.

"Still want to stay here forever?"

"Uh huh. Do I look too messy?"

"No. Your hair could stand some combing."

"Will you get me some more of that punch?"

When she had combed her hair, they stood up and he took her hand and they walked back along the graveled path.

"Can we phone to town from here?" she asked. "Doctor wanted me to check in at about five."

"Going to work?"

"Don't know yet."

They had their punch. The light danced in Jerry's hair, gave it the same orange tint which dominated the flower beds. "I forgot to tell you,"

Hall said. "You're beautiful."

Jerry swirled the scarlet drops on the bottom of her gla.s.s. "You don't know a thing about me," she said.

"What should I know?"

"Nothing. But can I tell you, anyway? I want to, Matt."

"I want to know."

Jerry sighed. "I told you I was married before, didn't I? It didn't take."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not really from Columbus. That is, my home town is nearer Columbus than to any other city, but it's just a hick village in the sticks." She told her story in very few words. High school, and then three years at the State University, and then marriage to a small-town high-school princ.i.p.al some years older than herself. After five years of small-town married life, Jerry came into a small inheritance, left the schoolmaster, and went back to get her degree. "I wanted to study medicine," she said, "but I didn't have enough money, so I took up nursing instead. The idea was to earn enough as a nurse to go back to medical school."

"What happened?"

"New York happened. I couldn't take hospital regimentation, and some of the doctors were so anxious to sleep with me that they got me some snap jobs. You know, sitting up with rich lushes and hanging onto the girdles of deserted dowagers who wanted to jump out of windows and handing the right scalpel to society surgeons while they carved out a million-dollar gut."

"It must have paid well."

"Too well."

"And so you became a glamour girl."

"That's a pretty cruel way to put it, Matt. I'm not really a dope, you know."

"I know."

"I guess I just stopped thinking because I was afraid to think."

"Where does Ansaldo fit into the picture?"

"I came with him because I admire his skill as a doctor. I can learn things by working with him. He's fantastically good, Matt."

"How long do you know him?"

"Not long. He came to New York about six months ago to operate on a drunk who'd been my patient for months. The patient had fallen down a flight of stairs on my day off. Ansaldo invited me to be one of the nurses when he operated on the patient's spine. Are you interested in operations?"

"A little. Why?"

"It was amazing. I thought I had seen some good surgeons at work. But Ansaldo is more than good, Matt. He's great. After that first operation, I was his nurse for all of his New York operations. And naturally, I jumped at the chance to come along. I'm a perfectionist, Matt. Some day, some day soon I hope, I'm going to go back to medical school. I've been saving every spare penny I could. And what I'm learning from Ansaldo couldn't be taught in any school."

"You amaze me," he said, honestly. It was hard to doubt her. He prodded her for details of Ansaldo's skill. She answered him earnestly, and with increased enthusiasm.

"But wait," she protested, finally. "I don't see why I should be telling all about myself. I haven't talked like this to any man for years."

"I haven't listened like this for just as long," he laughed.

"But it's not good, I know," she said, her voice abruptly breaking.

There were tears in her eyes, and she turned away. "I've gone and made a fool of myself."

"Why?"

"I know," she said. "You probably have a wife and nine kids in New York.

I bet you carry their pictures in your wallet."

"Do I?" Hall handed his wallet to Jerry. "Look for yourself. Take out every picture."

There were three photos in all. The first was of Bird, his wife and their baby. "My publisher," he explained.

There was a sepia photo of Hall pointing the lens of a camera at a bomb crater in Madrid. "London?" Jerry asked.

"Yeah," he said. "London."

The remaining photo showed Hall talking to an aged couple on a road packed with refugees. "France?" Jerry asked.

Hall shook his head. "No. Belgium." Again he lied. The picture had been taken in Spain.

"Don't hurt me, Matt," the girl said. She was dry-eyed now, but saddened. "Don't hurt me later."

"I won't hurt you," he said. He wondered at that moment if he would be able to avoid hurting her.