if you'll keep off the rug. You won't mind using
the sofa?"

"No, of course not. I'd be happy to pay--"

"Oh, tush, nobody's asking you to pay. This isn't a hotel. You mind if I
go back upstairs? They're gonna miss me at the palace."

"No, of course not," Sol said. He followed her into the darkened parlor,
and watched as she turned the screw on a hurricane-style lamp, shedding
a yellow pool of light over half a flowery sofa and a doily-covered wing
chair. "You go on up. I'll be perfectly fine."

"Guess you can use a towel, though. I'll get you one, then I'm going up.
We wake pretty early in this house. Breakfast's at seven; you'll have to
be up if you want any."

"I really can't thank you enough--"

"Tush," the woman said. She scurried out, and returned a moment later
with a thick bath towel. "Sorry I can't give you any bedding. But you'll
find it nice and warm in here." She squinted at the dim face of a
ship's-wheel clock on the mantle, and made a noise with her tongue.
"Three-thirty!" she exclaimed. "I'll miss the whole execution ..."

"The what?"

"Goodnight, young man," Mom said firmly.

She padded off, leaving Sol holding the towel. He patted his face, and
then scrubbed the wet tangle of brown hair. Carefully, he stepped off
the carpet and onto the stone floor in front of the fireplace. He
removed his drenched coat and suit jacket, and squeezed water out over
the ashes.

He stripped down to his underwear, wondering about next morning's
possible embarrassment, and decided to use the damp bath towel as a
blanket. The sofa was downy and comfortable. He curled up under the
towel, shivered once, and closed his eyes.

* * * * *

He was tired and very sleepy, and his customary nightly review was
limited to a few detached thoughts about the wedding he was supposed to
attend in Salinas that weekend ... the hoodlum who had responded to his
good-nature by dumping him out of his own car ... the slogging walk to
the village ... the little round woman who was hurrying off, like the
White Rabbit, to some mysterious appointment on the upper floor ...

Then he went to sleep.

A voice awoke him, shrill and questioning.

"Are you _nakkid_?"

His eyes flew open, and he pulled the towel protectively around his body
and glared at the little girl with the rust-red pigtails.

"Huh, mister?" she said, pushing a finger against her freckled nose.
"Are you?"

"No," he said angrily. "I'm n