Mr. and Mrs. Featherbrain exchanged glances. "Have you ever seen any of the motels on Ventura Boulevard, in Los Angeles?" Mrs. Featherbrain asked.
"Mmm--yes, I think so," I said. "There are quite a few of them, aren't there? I remember wondering, in fact, how they could possibly get enough tourists to keep them filled up, right in a big city like that."
My hostess shot a look at her husband, and blinked rapidly several times.
"Well, sir," Mr. Featherbrain began, speaking with apparent difficulty, "Yuh know, not ewybody that stays in motels is tourists."
I looked at him blankly.
His chin was growing red.
Mrs. Featherbrain's features were moving violently, and all at the same time.
"You never were in the motel business before, were you?" she asked.
I shook my head.
She sighed. "Well, you see," she explained, "sometimes young couples that are out together--well, they don't have any place to go, and so--of course it isn't wight, and the sort of people we know don't do it, but--and of course the motel owner isn't to blame if some people, instead of using the cabins to spend the night and sleep in, use them to ..." Her eyebrows were leaping wildly, and she turned to Mr. Featherbrain. "You tell her, dear," she begged him.