“You didn’t miss anything.”

“Why I never do, do I, Priss-puss? What cartoon is she talking about, do you have the faintest idea? Skier, I must have done twenty skier cartoons that came out last winter.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None. Just that it might provide worthwhile ego food for the struggling young cartoonist, and Lord knows he needs all of that he can get. Do we have any English muffins left?”

“No.”

“Funny, we didn’t have any at breakfast time either. Or yesterday. It’s fucking amazing how long a lack of English muffins can continue around here. You’d think we could use of this absence of muffins, pour anti-matter over it or something.”

“I forgot to buy them. I’ll get some this afternoon.”

“Promises, promises.”

“No, Thomas’s, Thomas’s.”

“That’s awful, Priss. I’m not disapproving. I just want you to know it’s awful. A woman should know these things. She sounds terrible.”

“Rhoda?”

“No, Jackie Kennedy. She has laryngitis.”

“Send her a card. Yes, I know she sounds terrible. Rhoda. She’s always been a very moody person, though. And she can convey this very well-her moods-which may make them come across heavier in a letter than otherwise. She’s very-verbally she’s-I forget the word for it, dammit-”

He began hitting himself in the center of the forehead with the heel of his hand and laughing throatily. “Articulate,” he said. “That’s the word you’re looking for, pudding-pie. She’s very articulate. You, just for the record, aren’t.”

Priss-puss, pudding-pie. He was purposely picking up things from her letter and heaving them at me. I didn’t very awfully love this.

“I suppose we’re lucky the letter got here before she did,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”