“Don’t be silly.” She rolled up the mat efficiently. “I was expecting you but I lost track of time ... which means it must be working a little. I’ll be right back.” She went into the bedroom and I sat down, amused by this unexpected side to Iris: I wondered if perhaps she was a devotee of wheat germ and mint tea as well. She claimed not. “It’s the only real exercise I get,” she said, changed now to a heavy robe which completely swathed her figure as she sat curled up in a great armchair, drinking Scotch, as did I, the winter outside hid by drawn curtains, by warmth and light.
“Have you done it long?”
“Oh, off and on for years. I never get anywhere but it’s very restful and I’ve felt so jittery lately that anything which relaxes me ...” her voice trailed off idly. She seemed relaxed now.
“I’ve been to see Paul,” I began importantly.
“Ah.”
But I could not, suddenly, generate sufficient anger to speak out with eloquence. I went around my anger stealthily, a murderer stalking his victim. “We disagreed.”
“In what?”
“In everything, I should say.”
“That’s so easy with Paul.” Iris stretched lazily; ice chattered in her glass; a car’s horn melodious and foreign sounded in the street below. “We need him. If it wasn’t Paul, it might be someone a great deal worse. At least he’s intelligent and devoted. That makes up for a lot.”
“I don’t think so; Iris, he’s establishing a sort of supermarket, short-order church for the masses.”