``What is this?'' she asked, turning suddenly. ``Don't you know all about me by this time? My name's Carla Caneli. This is my town. I sleep with you. You know something more about me every day, don't you? Would you be happier if I made up some stories about my life, told you some lies? Why are you trying to worry me?''

``I'm not trying to worry you.''

``Well, all right then.''

The cleansing tissues she had been using had been falling on the floor, and he got up and picked up one, then another, hoping she would notice what he was doing. At home he had been a clean orderly man, and now he had to hide his annoyance. Was she just naturally sloppy about everything but her physical appearance? he wondered. Would he have to clean up after her every day, clean the kitchen, the bathroom, and get down on his knees and scrub the kitchen floor, then hang up her dresses, pick up her stockings, make the bed while she lay around? He straightened up, ready to vent his exasperation, then grew afraid. If he dwelt on the indignities he suffered he would lose all respect for her, and without the respect he might lose his view of her, too.

``What's the matter?'' she asked suddenly.

``Nothing. Nothing at all,'' he said quietly. ``Let's go out.''

``Are those the only shoes you have, Sam?''

``What's the matter with them?''

``The heavy thick soles. Look at them.''

``They're an expensive English shoe for walking around a lot. I like them.''