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from a Whelan’s drugstore; a book of special account checks from a midtown Manhattan & Company branch bank; two clean initialled linen handkerchiefs; a half-filled package of Chesterfield cigarettes from which she smoked unless she wished to make an impression with the solid case—but she never smoked before lunch; the three keys necessary to get into her apartment, another key to the side entrance of her office building, two small flat keys to the large Hartman suitcases in her storage closets which she had not used since her trip to Europe, all held securely in a snap-button red leather key case; and a small, red leather-bound address book, containing the addresses of nine couples, six single women, and two men, there being nothing to indicate whether single or married. One was a Jim Saxton from Dallas, Texas; the other a Kenneth McCrary from Hollywood, California. It was a neat, orderly, and comparatively uncluttered pocket book.
    From one of the front closets devoted to coats she selected a soft plaid of medium weight and neutral shade. She pulled on black cotton gloves, picked up her purse and the morning paper, took a last sip of the now tepid coffee, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the cup, put out the lights behind her, and started to work. It was then exactly nine o’clock, at which time she was due in her office. But she’d gotten into such a habit of being late it was now practically impossible for her to be on time. “I’d better buck up,” she cautioned herself. Sooner or later her boss, Kirby, would get on her tail—in a nice way, of course; he was really a very nice guy—but she wouldn’t like it. She was extremely sensitive to reprimands, although, unlike many businesswomen who cry and sulk on such occasions, she became unreasonably furious.
    On opening the door into the corridor, she met Mattie about to enter. Mattie was a very dark-complexioned woman who never wore makeup nor gave any other indication of an interest in her personal appearance. Her face always looked unwashed, her short, kinky hair uncombed, her old tattered garments as mussed as if she had slept in them. She weighed over two hundred pounds, but was as solid as a rock.
    At the sight of Kriss her face lit with her professional grin, showing a row of sizeable pale yellow teeth with amalgam fillings here and there. “Mawnin’ Miz Cummons.” She seemed to have some manner of psychological block against pronouncing the name, Cummings , although once Kriss had heard her say distinctly, “Mister Drummings.” However, Kriss had no way of knowing that the gentleman to whom she referred was named Drummond .
    Kriss grinned back at her, giving the little amused chuckle that made her so well-liked. “I’m late again, Mattie. It seems as if I just can’t get off in time.”
    “Y’all needs tuh be ma’d, Miz Cummons. Dass wut y’all needs,” Mattie replied with easy familiarity. What she didn’t know about Kriss’s sex life, she had guessed. “Den y’all woud’n have tuh git up attall.”
    Kriss was never quite certain during these exchanges whether Mattie was slyly poking fun or stating a profound conviction. She chuckled uncomfortably and hastened down the corridor, her hard heel taps echoing about her.
    Outside she was greeted by a bright April morning. Her apartment building, an eight-storied, light brick structure erected during the middle nineteen-thirties, faced south on 21st Street, between Third Avenue and the south end of Lexington at Gramercy Park. To one side was an old blackened church: to the other a renovated brick residence, converted into apartments, with big, pleasant, modern windows catching the morning sun.
    It was a pleasant street, she thought, as she walked briskly along in the sunshine. Expensive, sophisticated. To her left the old Irving Hotel, facing the Park; to her right a modern, yellow brick, high-rent apartment house with beautiful windows, all lit at night, revealing the many wondrous decors. Down