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John lumbered up the steps of the Grange Hotel. He looked at the easychairs in the foyer and the lounge and every aching bone tried to steer himtowards one of them. If you're poor, he thought irritably, you sit on a hardchair or a bench or on your bed.Suddenly he heard the pitched nasal squeal. "Hello, John."He whirled, at bay.She patted the chair at her side. Obediently he slumped into it, his backand legs melting into the magical softness. He gazed at her, and no wordscame to his mind.Marion looked at him coolly. Her grey eyes took in every detail, tabulatedit, filed it for future brandishing."You look pretty seedy. Had some plastic surgery, I see. Not very successful.I could have given you the name of a good man, if I'd known. Still, there'snot much they can do, bar alter noses and chins and lop off ears and such.They can't alter the way you walk, or the click in your right knee, or theway you hold your head tilted slightly to the left because you're a bit deafin one ear. They can't alter those hands." She took one, and turned it over,examining the calluses and the broken, filthy nails. Dropping it without commentshe went on: "It was stupid of you to pay for your air ticket with acheque." She leaned forward. "You were always so regular, John. If you likeda hotel you'd go there until they pulled the place down. It was only a matterof time till I found you."She rose and gathered her stole, her bag. She dropped her gloves. As hebent to pick them up she said, in that same high pitched nasal tone audibleall over the hotel. "You might as well come home, now that the game's up.It's more comfortable and the pickings are better."His stiffness made it difficult to rise and she put out a hand. "I've missedyou, John, as you've missed me, I'm sure. There's been no one to hate."16 WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967