“A cup of coffee, a little conversation.”

After almost a full minute, the door opened. Vy Griffin was dressed in a pleated pink robe. Her hair was down, and she wore no make-up.

“Sam asked me to drop in on you,” he said, smiling.

“Did he?”

“Yes. He said he was going to spend the night in Farragut and maybe you could use a little company. If not, I’ll go on back to my room.”

“That would be a good idea,” she said, staring at him.

He did not take his eyes away. “Is it what you want me to do?”

She pulled the robe closer about her. “Yes,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’m—tired. I want to go to bed.”

He took a step into the room. “At ten-fifteen? I thought you never felt sleepy until one or two.”

“Please, I—”

“Sam would be very put out with you if he heard that you weren’t hospitable to a friend.”

“You’re not a friend.”

“Unkind. Definitely unkind. I only want a little cup of coffee.” He took another step and closed the door. “They usually don’t allow hot-plates in boardinghouses. You must be a special case.”

Vy Griffin was breathing heavily now. She walked angrily across the room, put the coffeepot under a faucet, snapped on the miniature stove.

He glanced at the unmade bed. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“That I wasn’t your friend.”

“I don’t know. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“You behave as if you were afraid of me. Afraid of something, anyway. Are you?”

She said “No!” quickly.

“Well, don’t bite my head off!” He sat down on the chair next to the bed. It was an old bed with a large, soft mattress. The center was indented. The sheets smelled of cheap perfume.

He turned to gaze at Vy Griffin, and he could tell that beneath the robe she was small and firm and hot. She would have a fine body. “Mrs. Lambert was telling me how Sam jewed-down Mr. Polling,” he said. “Five hundred dollars is a lot to shave off the price of a car. He must be a pretty good pitchman.”

“He is.”

“You know, that’s sort of a paradox to me,” Adam went on. “I just can’t connect it with the other side of Sam’s personality. He seems too honest and—simple.”

Vy Griffin fumbled in a bureau drawer, extracted a cigarette. Adam leapt up and struck a match. The woman met his eyes for a moment, then accepted the light. He did not move away.

“How do you stand it, anyway?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, this town, you know—I should think you’d get awfully lonesome. Especially with Sam leaving you half the time.”

“I stand it just fine, Mr. Cramer.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to say a thing that doesn’t upset you!”

He walked back to the chair and sat down with exaggerated resignation.