"Quite, Mr. Tompkins."
I managed to snag an uptown taxi and rolled in comfort to 172 East 72nd Street.
I pressed the button marked Smith and was rewarded by a clicking of the latch. I climbed the stairs and on the third story tapped the little brass knocker. The door opened and Virginia appeared clad somewhat in a white silk dressing-gown and with her red hair sizzling out at me.
"Come in, stranger," she said.
She closed the door and settled herself comfortably, with a cigarette, on the suspiciously broad day-bed. I sat down in a very deep easy chair, facing her, and lighted a cigarette too.
"Well?" I inquired.
"Winnie," she began, "you know I never try to interfere with your private life or try to ask questions, but don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?"
I flicked some ash on the carpet and tried to look inscrutable.
"You know what you are doing, of course," she continued, "and your performance in Washington was magnificent, but just between ourselves, can't you relax?"
Although the windows were open, the room seemed oppressively warm. I threw back my coat and confronted her without speaking.