"I am of course familiar with your work, Dr. Finneyfrock. But I mustn't keep you standing in your wet coat. Let me hang it up, here . . . And now, what about something hot to drink? Tea or coffee?"
He ushered her into the sitting area, leaving Karen to follow.
The manuscript, encased in its wrappings, lay on the table. Karen didn't wait for Simon's gesture of permission; she snatched it up like a mother embracing a missing child. This time she was not tempted to read on. A few more pages would not satisfy her urgent need.
It took the other two less than five minutes to get into a violent argument. Simon had never mentioned to Karen that he had read Peggy's book, but it was clear that he had, and it was only to be expected that he would take exception to her views on the role of women in pioneer America. Peggy was no more reluctant than he to express her opinions.
Before long the dangerous word "herstory" had been mentioned and Peggy's voice had deepened to a growl. "Conventional history completely ignores half the human race. What do you think women were doing while their men were shooting Indians and slaughtering animals and cutting down the forests—embroidering doilies? The progress of civilization ..."
Karen listened with amused enjoyment. She had thought Simon would like Peggy, but she hadn't dared hope they would hit it off so quickly and thoroughly. Simon never waxed sarcastic with people unless he approved of them.
He kept an unobtrusive eye on the clock, however, and finally he smiled and shrugged. "Greatly as I am enjoying this discussion, I fear I must excuse myself. We must talk again, Dr. Finneyfrock; I will not abandon hope of convincing such a rational woman of her small errors."
"I'll send you a copy of that article," Peggy said. "If it doesn't convince you, I will be forced to the conclusion that you are not as rational a man as you give occasional evidence of being."
Simon laughed aloud. "I will read it with pleasure. Your presence here makes me suspect that you are also interested in the manuscript. May I ask whether that interest is financial?"
Peggy returned his smile. "To whatever extent proves necessary."
Karen choked on the mouthful of coffee she had been about to swallow, and had to retire behind her napkin. It had never occurred to her to ask Peggy for financial help. There were some limits friends didn't cross, even when they were in the grip of an obsession like hers.
"I see." Simon stroked his chin and studied Peggy thoughtfully. "You are aware of the terms of the agreement? We have not committed it to writing; neither of us felt the need—"
"Nor do I," Peggy said. "Your word is good enough for me. I assure you I can and will match any offer you receive, but if you would like financial references—"
Simon's smile broadened. "I didn't require them of Karen. I can hardly do less for her . . . partner?"
"Whatever," said Peggy amiably. "Our arrangements need not concern you, Mr. Hallett."
Simon wasn't accustomed to being snubbed with such courteous finality. His brows drew together and he committed the outrageous rudeness of rising, to signal that the visit was at an end. "Very well. I'll be in touch with you as soon as I have the requisite information."
He helped them on with their coats and ushered them out the door.
Karen had so many questions and comments, she could not decide what to say first. As soon as the shop door had closed behind them, she burst out, "I didn't ask you for financial backing. When did you—"
"Save it." Peggy took her arm and started walking. "First things first. Let's get away from the shop. As soon as we're out of sight we'll put on our disguises and sneak back."
"What disguises? I didn't bring—"
"I've got one of those rainbonnets for you. Our coats are conveniently generic, in color and cut. I'll remove my glasses—"
"You're blind as a bat without them," Karen protested.
"Just till we're in position. You can lead me. The main thing is this scarf. Why do you think I wore such a garish article of attire? Once I take it off and put on my hat, I'll be unrecognizable."
She looked so pleased with herself, Karen hadn't the heart to point out the flaws in her plan. Peggy's most distinctive characteristic—her height, or lack thereof—couldn't easily be disguised. Karen decided not to mention it, for fear Peggy would rush off in search of a shoestore and a pair of four-inch heels.
They turned the corner and sought refuge from the thickening rain in a doorway. Peggy rummaged in her purse, fished out an amorphous wad of fabric and punched it into shape. It looked more like a decaying tan pyramid than a hat. Peggy replaced her scarf with this object and smirked complacently. "See? Now where did I put the . . . ah, here it is."
The plastic strip unfolded into a headcovering of sorts. It was printed with bright-red balloons. Resignedly Karen allowed her friend to arrange it over her damp hair.
"What position did you have in mind?" she asked. "This isn't the sort of neighborhood where it's safe to stand on a street corner."
"There's a bar practically across the street from the shop." Before Karen could object, Peggy went on, "And we'd better hurry. He was getting fidgety; his client must be due soon."
She was right, and Karen gave her credit for spotting Simon's impatience. She wouldn't have noticed it herself if she hadn't known him so well.
If she had been alone, Karen would have preferred the perils of a street corner to the ambiguous ambience Peggy had selected. Peggy did not share her qualms. "A nice, typical neighborhood bar," she proclaimed happily. "I hope they serve sandwiches. I'm starved."
The menu reminded Karen of a classic "Saturday Night Live" routine: hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and—as a concession to
