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all, was there a prison sentence attached to making another woman feel that she was more than a forgotten face in the crowds
    The door of the Lincoln was open, Taylor standing in the lordosis position he equated with Military Bearing. Sheila was just a step from solitude, silence and a cigarette when the last of the ladies caught her.
    “M-Mrs. Sargent, I wonder if I could. . . .”
    “Yes?” Sheila said, beaming.
    “ Well, you see this—this friend of mine has this husband that drinks and. . . .”
    Sheila took in the woman with a practiced eye. Her ear had already told her quite enough. From time to time she received letters inquiring about abortions—rarely for the person who signed the letter, but always for A Friend. “A friend of mine has gotten a girl in trouble and as he is a married man. . . .” “A friend of mine has discovered that she is pregnant and, as she is not married. . . .” Instinct told Sheila that this woman was speaking of her own husband and was not clever enough to say “My sister’s husband,” or “My daughter s husband “
    In a glance Sheila took inventory—the pinched, hurt expression; the brave little hat; the old spring jacket hopefully perked up with a corsage of straw flowers and acorns; the clean, mended gloves. Here was one of the innocent victims of the most expensive and hopeless disease in the world—alcoholism. Sheila could spot the families of drunkards at a thousand yards.
    The poor thing, Sheila thought, saddled with some lush and too proud to admit it. “That’s quite a problem,” she said soberly. “Too big a problem to discuss right here. But I’ll tell you what,” She opened her bag and took out a card, “Have your friend write to me and I’ll try to. . . .”
    “Oh, I . . . I mean she wouldn’t want it to be in the papers.”
    “Not to the newspaper,” Sheila said smoothly. “But directly to me. Here, I’ll write the box number.” Sheila was too smart ever to give her address or telephone number to strangers. Offered too much encouragement, people with troubles could hang on like bloodsuckers, revel in their misery, even invent problems to play to a sympathetic audience. The anonymity of the Lake Forest post office was a lot better for all concerned. “This will reach me,” Sheila said. “And tell your friend that names and addresses are absolutely confidential. Good-by and good luck.” Sheila gave the woman’s shoulder a quick little squeeze and disappeared into her car. The door closed with an expensive-sounding click. Lady Rich Bitch, Sheila thought, sables and a limousine, while that wretched woman will walk home to find that her husband has hocked her rosary to buy California port. “Taylor,” she said, “when you get to Clark Street, turn.”
    “Yes, Miz Sargent.” It wasn’t the way Taylor would have chosen to drive back to Lake Forest, but he was accustomed to unorthodox instructions on the days when Sheila made public appearances.
    As the car turned off Orrington Avenue, Sheila lighted herfirst cigarette in more than three hours. She closed her eyes and inhaled ecstatically. When she opened them she cried, “Taylor! Stop!”
    “ Yes, Miz Sargent?”
    “That little shop we just passed. I saw a dress in the window that would be perfect for Allison. Taylor, wait right here. I won’t be a minute. No, don’t bother. I can manage.” She snuffed out her cigarette and scrambled down from the car.

X.
     
    “ We’re not doing badly at all for time,” Mr. Malvern said as the car shot up Sheridan Road.
    “Really?” Johnson said.
    “No trick at all to get out to the North Shore now that they’ve extended the Drive all the way up to De-von.” In the manner peculiar only to Chicago, he pronounced Devon to rhyme with Yvonne.
    “Where?”
    “De-von. You know, like a county in England.”
    “Oh! Devon,” Peter said, pronouncing it to rhyme with Seven, as people in Devonshire and all other parts of the world pronounce it.
    Mr.