"I'm not even sure it belongs there—in a duck," Melinda groaned.
"I don't think it does. Let's leave it out."
"There's such a gap there," Melinda said miserably.
"Don't think about it. We'll put some wild rice around it."
Together they organized the duck, the wild rice, the peas, the hot rolls, the watercress salad. But the salad dressing wasn't made. Melinda always liked Vic to make the dressing, and besides, he had seven varieties of homegrown herbs in little labeled boxes to go in. He used the herbs in varying combinations.
"Don't worry about anything," Vic said. "I'll put everything back in the oven, and the dressing'll be made in a flash!" He slid the silver platter with the duck back into the oven, left Melinda to put the other dishes on top of the oven, then made the salad, crushing the garlic and salt together in the bowl while he added vinegar; then he put in the herbs—one, two, three different kinds—with his left hand while he stirred constantly with his right. "Nice of you to have the watercress all washed," he said over his shoulder.
Melinda didn't say anything.
"I hope Harold isn't expecting to begin with snails," Vic said. "Why should he?"
"He said he liked them. To eat, I mean." Vic laughed.
"Did you tell him it'd be like eating your own flesh and blood?"
"No. I didn't. Well, the salad's ready Would you like to go and alert the guests?"
Horace and Carpenter were deep in a conversation and were the last to come to the table. Horace looked troubled, Vic saw. Melinda was in a state of petrified anxiety as to whether everything tasted all right or was hot enough, and hardly got a word out for the first quarter of an hour. Everything did taste all right, and the dinner went along well enough. It was not quite as a dinner among old friends should have been, but that may have been partly due to Carpenter's presence. Vic noticed that Horace did not attempt to talk to Carpenter at the table. From Carpenter's sculpturesque, immobile, pleasant features, Vic could learn nothing. Except that it was interesting that he and Melinda said so little to each other. It suggested to Vic that they had been together earlier in the day. Carpenter spent most of the dinner listening.
They had their coffee in the living room. Horace strolled to a front window and stood looking out. Vic was watching him when lie turned around finally, and Horace made him a sign to come over. Vic went. Horace opened the front door and they walked out on the lawn.
"He's not at Columbia University, that fellow in there," Horace began immediately "He doesn't know anybody at Columbia. He seems to know one name—the head of the Psychology Department, but he's never heard of anybody else there." Horace was frowning.
"I didn't think he would," Vic said quietly.
"I don't mean he didn't 'try' to sound as if he knew what was going on at Columbia, but I know enough about the Psychology Department there to know he's faking the whole thing. Is he one of Kennington's outpatients, did you say?"
Vic put his head back and laughed loudly into the empty night air. "No, Horace. I said he was doing research there toward a thesis." "Oh. Is it true?"
"Well—I don't really know if it's true, considering what you've just told me."
Horace lit a cigarette impatiently, but refrained from throwing the match on the lawn. "I don't like him. What's he up to?"
"Search me," said Vic, pulling up a few grass blades, holding them up against the pallid circle of the moon. It occurred to him that he should try some offset printing with grass blades, leaves, maybe a razor-cut cross section of a clover blossom. It would be very effective in Brian Ryder's book of poems, Vic thought. So many of his poems had allusions to plants and flowers.
"Vic—"
"What?"
"What's he up to? Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. Is he interested in Melinda?"
Vic hesitated. "I don't think so," he said indifferently. Might as well tell the truth when one could.
"He's trying something with this school business, that's certain. He didn't even make any excuses, such as having been at another school most of the time so he didn't know Columbia well. He stuck to Columbia—floundering. But floundering very slickly, if you know what I mean."
"You've got me, Horace. I don't know what he's up to." "And staying in De Lisle's house. Didn't Melinda arrange that?" "She recommended the house to him," Vic conceded. Horace thought for a moment. "It'd be interesting to know if he knows Don Wilson."
"Why?"
"Because I think he might. He might be a friend of Don's." "What do you mean? Hauled up here as a kind of spy?" "Exactly."
Vic knew Horace had gone that far. He wanted to see if Horace had thought he might be a detective. "I don't think he's met Don. At least, the last time I asked Melinda she didn't think they knew each other."
"Maybe they do know each other and that's why they're keeping apart."
Vic chuckled, "You're about as imaginative as Wilson."
"All right, maybe I'm all wrong. I think he knows 'something' about psychology. But he's not all he says he is. I'd just like to know his motives. How long is he going to be up here?"
"I gather about another month. He's making a pilot test of schizophrenic treatment over at Kennington."
"I'd be interested to know just what kind of pilot test," Horace said cynically "I know Fred Dreyfuss over there. I can easily find out."
Vic made a sound indicating that he didn't consider it of much importance.
"How is Melinda these days?" Horace asked.
"Fine, I suppose," Vic replied, feeling himself stiffen in the old
