The description that Whipple had given us of her had been biased. She wasn't skinny. She was small, a couple of inches shorter than Lily, who came up to my nose, with smooth fair skin, brown hair and eyes, and hardly any lipstick on her wide full mouth. Her handshake was firm and friendly without overdoing it. Lily told me afterward that her brown woolen dress was probably Bergdorf, two hundred bucks. She didn't want a cocktail.

I left it to Lily. At lunch-mushroom chowder, lobster souffle, avocado salad, pineapple mousse-she stuck to ROCC: people, record, policy, program. Susan Brooke knew it all and knew how to tell it. It was a good pitch for almost anybody this side of Governor Wallace or Senator Eastland.

The question whether Lily should give her a check or stall was for Lily to decide, but the further question, whether to give it to her before getting personal or after, had been left to me. Lily made her decision before we left the table; she rubbed her eye with her middle finger. Yes, on the check. I considered my question. Would she be a better quiz prospect while she was still wondering if she had made a sale, or after it was in the bag? My understanding of attractive young women wouldn't tell me, so I fingered in my pocket for a quarter, slipped it out, and glanced at it. Heads. I rubbed my left eye and saw that Lily got it.

Back in the living room, when coffee had been poured, Lily excused herself and left us. In a minute she returned, went to Miss Brooke, and handed her a little rectangle of blue paper. "There," she said. "It won't get me into heaven, but it may help a little. Green pastures."

Susan Brooke looked at it-not just a glance, a full look. "The lovely lunch and this too," she said. She had a nice soft voice but ran her words together some. "Many-many thanks, Miss Rowan, but of course they're not just from me, they're from all of us. Is it all right to list you as a patron?"