Ted went out to the porch with his coffee and cigarette. The view was unpopulated. Conscience, he told himself. My annoyance is an indication of it. Why should my conscience bother me because of a dream? Who can stop a dream?
There was a scratching sound from the other side of the nutmeg tree and the inverted head of Hamilton appeared about ten feet above the tree's base.
"You don't look happy."
Ted didn't answer.
Hamilton came down the remaining ten feet and went over to look at the geraniums. "Fine gardener, your wife."
Ted ignored him.
"Good looking, too. Maybe she could dye her hair."
No words from Ted.
Hamilton looked down at the house below, and back at Ted. "Don't blame me for that Venus trip, Truesdale. You wanted it, but bad."
"I'm not blaming anybody for anything," Ted said. "Just because I had a dream."