It was like asking one's grandfather for a date. His regard for her highly professional approach turned to resentment. After all, she was a woman, a woman who persisted in belting her smock too tightly and wearing sheer nylons. Why this absurd revulsion at his casual acknowledgment of her sex?
He almost withdrew the invitation, but changed his mind at the last moment. "You name the place and the subject for conversation."
She nodded. "Very well, I'll pick you up at seven."
He had his date—with an emancipated female, and she didn't let him forget it during the whole meal. The restaurant she picked was expensive, but about as romantic as a bus depot. She ordered beer instead of a cocktail, toyed wordlessly with a $5.00 steak, and argued over the check.
Only as they were preparing to leave did she betray a sign of femininity. A platinum blonde, two tables away, had been eying Murt. Suddenly, she lurched to her feet without a word to her escort, staggered over to the pathologist, slurred, "You're what I've b'n lookin' for all m'life," and planted a wet alcoholic kiss on his mouth before he could defend himself.
Her escort peeled her away with sad-eyed apologies. There was no jealousy or anger in his face, only a deep hurt. "She—she isn't well, I think," he said. "You know, this new—whatever it is that's going around."
Murt wiped off the lipstick and looked at Phyllis, expecting to find at best sardonic amusement, but she seemed pale and annoyed.
"I'm sorry I brought you here," she said.
"Think nothing of it," Murt told her. "You heard the man. This is what's going around. Do you think I'll catch it?"
Phyllis wasn't amused. She did let him ride the taxi to her apartment, but bade him a terse goodby at the door.