She fled the elevator at the first opportunity.

Stone stepped out of the building into sunlight like a thousand strobe lights. Shielding his eyes with a forearm, he stepped into the street and was nearly run down by a cab.

“You looking for a ride, buddy, or just suicide?” the cabbie yelled through his open window.

Stone struggled into the backseat and gave him the address. “What street are we on?” he asked.

“East Seventy-ninth,” the cabbie replied. “It’s the big one with all the cars.”

As the cab neared his house, Stone took mental inventory of the previous evening’s events. He seemed to remember some sort of drinking contest with Willa, which he had, apparently, lost. How many drinks did it take to make him feel this way?

He stuffed money into the pass-through of the driver’s bullet-proof shield and spilled himself into the gutter in front of his house. He looked at the front steps and decided against, instead taking the steps down to his office door.

“Good morning!” Joan said from her office as he passed.

“No need to shout,” Stone said as he stumbled toward his own office. He decided to rest on his sofa for a moment before trying to find the elevator.

Joan shook him awake. “It’s ten-thirty,” she said. “Are you working or doing anything at all today?”

Stone sat up. He found he was still wearing his overcoat.

“Mr. Herbert Fisher to see you,” Joan said.

Stone got to his feet. “Tell him to come back tomorrow, and tell Helene to send some toast and coffee upstairs.” He looked around for the elevator door.

“Why are you wearing only one sock?” Joan asked.

Stone raised a hand. “Not now.”

“I don’t think I saw that recommended in the Styles section of the Times,” she said.

Stone got into the elevator. “I don’t want to hear from you before one o’clock,” he said. “Maybe not even then.” The elevator doors closed, and he pressed his back against the wall to steady himself.

He got to his dressing room, emptied his pockets, and stuffed all his clothes into the two bins, one for laundry, the other for dry cleaning. He hung up his overcoat and his necktie.

He stood under a hot shower for two minutes, then got into a terry robe and made his way to the dumbwaiter, where his toast and coffee awaited, then he put the electric bed into the sitting position, ate and drank and pulled the Times into his lap and tried to read the front page.

“Stone.” Joan’s voice came from the speakerphone. “It’s one-thirty; you asked me to wake you.”

Stone jerked awake, still in a sitting position, with a sore neck from sleeping with his chin on his chest. He pressed the button on the phone. “Forget I asked you,” he said.

“Nighty-night,” she replied, and switched off.