``Infectious hepatitis,'' he shouted heartily.

She took a good look at herself in the mirror before she turned and, walking with very small steps, started toward the door. ``Oh, please come in,'' she said. The girlish voice was nearly a whisper. She was not a girl, he could see. Her hair was dyed, and her bloom was fading, and she must have been crowding forty, but she seemed to be one of those women who cling to the manners and graces of a pretty child of eight. ``Your wife just called,'' she said, separating one word from another, exactly like a child. ``And I am not sure that I have any cash -- any money, that is -- but if you will wait just a minute I will write you out a check if I can find my checkbook. Won't you step into the living room, where it's cozier?''

A fire had just been lighted, he saw, and things had been set out for drinks, and, like any stray, his response to these comforts was instantaneous. Where was Mr. Flannagan, he wondered. Travelling home on a late train? Changing his clothes upstairs? Taking a shower? At the end of the room there was a desk heaped with papers, and she began to riffle these, making sighs and and noises of girlish exasperation. ``I am terribly sorry to keep you waiting,'' she said, ``but won't you make yourself a little drink while you wait? Everything's on the table.''

``What train does Mr. Flannagan come out on?''

``Mr. Flannagan is away,'' she said. Her voice dropped. ``Mr. Flannagan has been away for six weeks.''