One day, in the presence of Mrs. Peopping, Mrs. Jett jumped to her feet with a violent shaking of her right hand, as if to dash off something that had crawled across its back.

“Ugh!” she cried.  “It flopped right on my hand.  A minnow!  Ugh!”

“A what?” cried Mrs. Peopping, jumping to her feet and her flesh seeming to crawl up.

“A minnow.  I mean a bug—­a June bug.  It was a bug, Mrs. Peopping.”

There ensued a mock search for the thing, the two women, on all-fours, peering beneath the chairs.  In that position they met levelly, eye to eye.  Then without more ado rose, brushing their knees and reseating themselves.

“Maybe if you would read books you would feel better,” said Mrs. Peopping, scooping up a needleful of steel beads.  “I know a woman who made it her business to read all the poetry books she could lay hands on, and went to all the bandstand concerts in the Park the whole time, and now her daughter sings in the choir out in Saginaw, Michigan.”

“I know some believe in that,” said Mrs. Jett, trying to force a smile through her pallor.  “I must try it.”

But the infinitesimal stitching kept her so busy.

* * * * *

It was inevitable, though, that in time Henry should begin to shoulder more than a normal share of unease.

One evening she leaned across the little lamplit table between them as he sat reading in the Persian-design dressing gown and said, as rapidly as her lips could form the dreadful repetition, “The fish, the fish, the fish, the fish.”  And then, almost impudently for her, disclaimed having said it.

He urged her to visit her doctor and she would not, and so, secretly, he did, and came away better satisfied, and with directions for keeping her diverted, which punctiliously he tried to observe.

He began by committing sly acts of discretion on his own accord.  Was careful not to handle the fish.  Changed his suit now before coming home, behind a screen in his office, and, feeling foolish, went out and purchased a bottle of violet eau de Cologne, which he rubbed into his palms and for some inexplicable reason on his half-bald spot.

Of course that was futile, because the indescribably and faintly rotten smell of the sea came through, none the less, and to Henry he was himself heinous with scent.

One Sunday morning, as was his wont, Mr. Jett climbed into his dressing gown and padded downstairs for the loan of little Jeanette Peopping, with whom he returned, the delicious nub of her goldilocks head showing just above the blanket which enveloped her, eyes and all.

He deposited her in bed beside Mrs. Jett, the little pink feet peeping out from her nightdress and her baby teeth showing in a smile that Mr. Jett loved to pinch together with thumb and forefinger.

“Cover her up quick, Em, it’s chilly this morning.”

Quite without precedent, Jeanette puckered up to cry, holding herself rigidly to Mr. Jett’s dressing gown.