"Don't go near the living room," Ellen called from somewhere on the bedroom level of the house, "it's still wet. The maid quit, dear."
"Quit?" Channing hollered back. "What on Earth for?" He settled himself on a web-chair in the study, poured a martini from the decanter Ellen had prepared, and began to thumb through the impressive compilation of figures the under-secretary had left with Julie.
"She's getting married."
"What?" Channing gasped. "Fanny getting married? I don't believe it."
"Honest," said Ellen, entering the room. She was a little pretty woman, dressed in tight black torrero slacks and a fuzzy crimson sweater which Channing thought came from one of the Centauri planets. She was twenty-eight, half a dozen years younger than Channing, with short-cropped chestnut hair and the dimpled smile and attractive legs which aided and abetted a diplomat's career. She knew it and in the best modern fashion they made good use of it.
Ellen sipped from Channing's cocktail glass, poured another for each of them, pecked at his cheek with carmined lips and settled comfortably in his lap. "You see," she said, not looking at him, "someone from Qui Dor enterprises visited us on Monday."
"So now Fanny's getting married. I'll be damned. Say, you didn't take anything from them, did you?"
"You mean like a husband? No-o."
"I mean like anything. And stop kidding."