had over-generously insisted on giving him all the credit for the
remedy as well as the isolation of the disease virus. He was an
international hero.

The warning of another attack came to him at 3:30 in the afternoon, when
Phyllis Sutton was leaving. She stuck her head back in the door and gave
him an uncommonly warm smile and cried, "Merry Christmas, Doctor!"

He waved at her and, as the door closed, caught his breath. There was
the burn in his stomach again. It passed away and he refused to give it
further thought.

His own cab wound its way through the heavy Christmas Eve traffic an
hour before store-closing time. Finally, the vehicle stalled in a jam.
It was only six blocks to his club, so Murt paid off the driver and
walked.

Part of his strategy of bachelorhood had been to ignore Christmas and
the other sentimental seasons, when loneliness costs many a man his
independence. But now it was impossible to ignore the snowflakes, the
bustling, package-laden crowds and the street-corner Santa Clauses with
their tinkling bells.

* * * * *

He found himself staring into department store windows at the gay
decorations.

A pair of shimmering, nearly invisible nylons caught his eye. They were
the most impalpable of substances, only their bare outline visible
against the white background.

He thought of Phyllis and, on impulse, went into the store and bought a
pair. The clerk had to pick a size at random for him. Outside, on the
sidewalk, he stared at the prettily gift-wrapped package and finally
acknowledged the tremor, the tension and the old ache in the region of
his diaphragm.

_Relapse!_

He plodded three slushy blocks up a side-street before he found a cab.
He gave Phyllis Sutton's address to the driver and sank back in the taxi
as a wave of weakness overcame him. What if she weren't home? It was
Christmas Eve. She would probably be visiting friends or relatives.

But she wasn't. She opened the door under his impatient knock, and her
eyes widened cordially.

"Sylvester!" she exclaimed. "Merry Christmas! Is that for me?" She
pointed to the package, clutched forgotten in his hands.

"Merry, hell!" he said dispiritedly. "I came to warn you to look out for
a relapse. Mine's been coming on all day."

She drew him inside, made him take off his coat and sit down before she
acknowledged his remark. The apartment was cozy, with a tiny Christmas
tree decorated in the window. She