"Landlady's out," Kate said shortly. "She sits with her grandchildren until the father gets home from work."

"Then do I have to stand in the hall until she gets home?"

The implication was clear. Kate wanted to ignore it. She wanted to get into her own room and lock the door behind her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to get the cap off that bottle and start the slow horrible descent into hell. But she said slowly, "It's drafty in the hall. You better come into my place."

"Thank you."

As the blonde walked into the room, Kate noticed the hair-thin scar across her right cheek, running from nose to chin. She had made no attempt to cover it. For some reason she couldn't understand, Kate's eyes filled with tears at the sight. She said nervously, "My room doesn't look like much."

"All cheap rooms look alike."

"I guess so." She put her package in the closet, out of sight. "Sit down. I'll make some coffee—if I can get into the bathroom for the water."

"That would be nice."

Habit's a wonderful thing, Kate thought dryly as she took the percolator from behind the screen and walked across the hall with it. You go along like you were still alive, and hardly anybody knows the difference. She didn't know whether to be irritated or relieved by this postponement of what she didn't want to do, but had to.

Her guest had taken off her coat and spread it over the back of a chair to dry, by the time she got back. She stood in front of the old-fashioned dresser, combing her hair. She looked older than at first glance, in her late twenties; a slim boyish figure in a dark skirt and tailored blouse. At least, Kate thought, I don't have to listen to a yacking teenager.

"I'm making myself at home in your house, but I don't know your name yet."

"Kate Wood."

"I'm Erika Frohmann."

"That's pretty."

Erika shrugged. "It's a name."

Kate took the coffeepot into the kitchen alcove and turned on the electric plate. The coils glowed ashy pink and then orange. She came out and sat on the bed. "It takes a while."

"This is a sad house, isn't it?" Erika smoothed back the last curly strands from a rounded forehead. "It must have been a proud house once. My grandmother's house had these high ceilings with the plaster cupids in the corners, and the downstairs floors were parquet—like the hall here. On the landing was a naked woman with a torch, and the torch was a gas lamp." She laughed, but her face was tender. "She thought it was beautiful. But this house is sad."

"Any place where people live without roots is sad."

"Mine were torn up a long time ago," Erika volunteered. "Everyone is tired of refugee stories. There are so many and they're all alike. May I help you with the coffee, or anything?"

"No thanks."

Erika Frohmann said dryly, "I should have stayed in the hall. You like to be alone, don't you?"