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the idea of having her enter some of the road races coming up. And that had seemed good too. But one day she had looked at Rufi in the morning light at that inn and knew that it was finished. Rufi had wept in rage and disappointment and the look of him with his face all twisted up had made it even more finished for her. But she had kept the driving skills he had taught her.
    Far ahead on the divided toll road she saw two trucks about two hundred feet apart, grinding up the slope. An American tourist car was starting the process of passing both trucks. Gloria’s eyes narrowed as she judged speed and distances. She tramped the gas pedal down and rocketed toward the group of vehicles. She came up on the tourist car just as it had passedthe first truck. She swung right between the rear of the tourist car and the front of the second truck, then cut back to the left lane, passing narrowly between the rear of the lead truck and the front of the tourist car. She glanced at Miles. He still clutched his knees. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving. She chuckled against the sound of the wind.
    It would be fun to give Gambel Torrigan a gutsy ride back across the mountain. He would probably respond by pretending to go to sleep.
    It was odd how when the idea of Drummy running a summer art school had occurred to her, she had immediately thought of Gam Torrigan. She knew other artists, and better ones. And some of the better ones would probably have jumped at the idea of two months in Mexico on a free ride. But she wrote to somebody in New York who kept track of such things and found out that Gam was teaching at something called the Peninsular Art School and Foundation in Englewood, Florida, and wrote him there, suspecting that, as in Posketnob, Maine, Gam would be close to wearing out his Englewood welcome.
    That had been a crazy month in Maine. Which one had it been? Garvey, of course. And near the beginning of the end. Gussy Garvey, with a forlorn idea of mending marital rifts already well past repair, had leased that sullen dog of a schooner with its tiresome crew of three and they had gone a-journeying up the New England coast, stopping off to party here and there with friends, and with friends of friends.
    They tied up for the longest day in the Posketnob Yacht Basin. Gussy had dear old friends there, a limp old pal from Choate days who had a hell of a big house and a neurotic pretentious wife. It was the wife, Coralee something, who brought her art teacher, Gam Torrigan, down for cocktails on the schooner. After the first fifteen minutes of idle yak Gloria had acquired all the tactical information she needed. Gam was having a thing with Coralee. He was bored with the whole deal. He was being pointedly charming toward Gloria. And, quite obviously, he was a big, arrogant, selfish, ignorant, picturesque phony. Who suited her completely. During their affair they got carelessly drunk one afternoon and Coralee made an unfortunate entrance. After an attack of screaming hysterics, Coralee went home and cut her wrists with great care, cut them just enough to get about ten drops of blood from each one, and then made a tragic confession to the item from Choate, includingwhat she had interrupted. The shaken Choate type passed it along to Gussy, as a sort of friendly gesture. And so that was the end of the marriage, right there, and the schooner was sent on home without passengers. And Gam’s teaching contract was terminated without notice—a sort of local substitute for tar and feathers.
    Gloria realized that her recent correspondence with Gam might be open to misinterpretation on his part. He might think she wanted a continuance of the so abruptly severed relationship back in Posketnob. She did not think she did. When she thought of him, there was no answering visceral tremor. But if it occurred once she saw him in person, then let him believe what he wished. But if it was still dead, he would have to be abruptly educated. Perhaps he