And from what she told me last night she’s had enough of him to last a lifetime. By the way, how much of a lifetime DID it last? Her marriage, I mean?”

“To Saffron? Oh, that was all years ago.”

“Did she never marry again?”

“Sure, she’s got a husband now—but they’re supposed to be separating or separated. Millionaire banker, broker, something like that. New York… The latest gossip links her with Greg Wilson.”

Oh no, George thought in protest—not Greg Wilson. But then he realized what was behind the protest, and being skilled in self-diagnosis, he was astonished. For already he was aware of something quite unexampled in his experience. He liked women and had frequently thought he loved them, but never before had he been able to contemplate marriage. Now, quite suddenly, he was able. Not a desire, of course, just a pleasure in abstract thought. And it was absurd—after an hour or so of acquaintance and a few scraps of conversation. Yet it did not SEEM absurd, and that was what made it such an astonishment to him. He had not known he was capable of it.

Randolph was waiting, so he said lightly: “Sounds a little confusing, Randy.”

“Did you ever know the life of an actress that wasn’t? Not that Greg Wilson seems to me her type.”

“Maybe she doesn’t have a type. She isn’t one, why should she have one? Well, call me up later if you get more news.”

George then sent out for the morning papers, and while they were coming he brushed aside the work on his desk and indulged in a daydream. He wondered if what she really sought from him was advice on matters more important than sub-letting an apartment—her marriage problem, maybe? Perhaps she wanted a divorce from the millionaire? George was an expert in getting divorces from (and for) millionaires. It would be exciting to be able to help her, to show off a little in doing so, to say in that calm, casual way that had reassured so many clients during their first professional interview: “Sure, we’ll get what you want. Not a doubt of it. Just relax and don’t worry…”

The papers then arrived and he found the Saffron affair two-columned on the front page under the caption: “Abuses Hollywood, then Cops; Noted Director makes Morning Journey to Jail”. There was the usual photograph through prison bars, and the story had been written up in that style of deadpan glee which, by long experience, has proved most effective in making the fall of the mighty pleasurable to the masses.

“Paul Saffron, director of the hit picture Morning Journey, gave Hollywood a straight punch to the jaw in his speech at the Critics’ Dinner last night.” (Then a technically indisputable but thoroughly tendentious summary of what Saffron had said.) “Unfortunately Mr. Saffron was just as mad with the police an hour later when they asked why he had bashed in the fenders of a parked car outside his apartment…” Etc. etc.

George telephoned a few people who would know and found that the case, though trivial, would make further headlines if only because of Saffron’s emphatic denials and generally truculent behaviour in court that morning. But as he had admitted a few drinks at the dinner and been unable to pass a sobriety test, he might just as well have pleaded guilty from the outset. On the whole he was lucky to get off with a fifty-dollar fine.

George was working late at the office that evening and about ten o’clock Randolph called him again. “Still missing, George, but a scrap more news. We finally got the hotel clerk to admit that she went out again about half an hour after checking in. She’d changed to street clothes and drove off in her car. Now where could she go alone at half-past one in the morning?”

“Ah,” said George, beginning to chuckle because of the twinge of jealousy that made him catch his breath.

Randolph ignored the frivolity. “Well, it so happens we do know where she went, because the clerk eavesdropped on a phone call. You’d never guess.”

“I probably wouldn’t. Where was it?”

“The Observatory on Mount Wilson. She called up somebody there and asked if she could look at the stars.”

“Any proof that she did?”

“Not yet, but someone’s on his way there to find out. Have to tread carefully, we don’t want the papers to make another sensation.”

After Randolph hung up, George telephoned the Observatory.