Jane surveyed the disarray. The room looked frail and desolate, as though suffering from chronic pinkeye, despite the opulent clutter and her presence in its midst. There was surely a rational approach to discovering its whereabouts — the brooch that is, the beautiful ruby-studded brooch Alan had bought her for their first anniversary. She stumbled over a pile of lamé and brocade heaped at the foot of the bed and regained her balance at the open door of the closet, awash with the pastels she loved only a shade less than herself. She grimaced and rubbed the spot where she imagined some sequins had brushed her leg, oblivious of the fact that the sequined dresses still hung on their padded hangers in the closet. The brooch had been a favorite since its receipt, and although she hadn't worn it often she had always savored the pleasure of its possession during those nooks and crannies of time when despondency overtook her. Like the time she had been asked to straighten out the muddle of arrangements for the flower show, and the time St. Barnaby's Home for the Indigent and Aged had begged her to solicit bequests from the nouveau riche youngsters who now crowded a once sedate ballroom a mere block away. And somehow she had gotten through. Beautifully, in fact. She had been hailed as nonpareil at orchestrating flowers and their human tangents and superb at solicitation. The brooch was her talisman. She was vague about why she felt she needed it just now. She felt no pangs of inadequacy or depression. Quite the contrary. She was elated. Her thirty-sixth birthday was a source of celebration and satisfaction to her. She was still able to catch the eye as well as the ear of men and felt wonderful and young. Her only uneasiness centered on the brooch. Still, she had time before the flowers, the fuss and the opera. Yes, she had discovered Alan's secret this year as always. A brief wonder at her disinclination to be surprised flitted across her mind. She threw herself across the bed, pulled open the top drawer of her night table, and removed the pink book that itemized her social obligations and pleasures of the year to date. She noted that she had last worn the brooch three months earlier at the anniversary party friends had given her and Alan to celebrate their sixth year together. It had graced her white woolen dress as a pendant. And indeed, it was with her collection of hanging jewels, still on the silver chain. She held it up to the light. The silver giraffe, his mouth set in an endearing, full, and foolish smile, winked at her all his ruby-spotted length. She removed him from the chain and placed him carefully among friends in an extensive jeweled clip-on ménage. She penciled a notation in the pink book. Now she would remember.

* * *

"But Mrs. Blaiser, you don't understand. The public is crying out for representational art. They don't want to be shown a Rorschach blot and be told that it's a cat, or a mash of brown and green squiggles and be told that it's a tree. They want to see things as they really are. Those framed gobs of paint out there don't speak to the average person. And let's face it — most of us are average."

"Mr. Leroy, you have most winning manners. You attack my understanding, my stature and the artists this gallery represents, and you expect to succeed in persuading me to accept your work."

"No, I don't."

"Oh, well then, you have succeeded admirably. Why did you come here, anyway? Surely you know we deal solely in abstract art."

"I thought you might appreciate a crack at something new. At least something so old that it's more novel than new. And I saw your picture in one of the trade magazines and figured that a beautiful woman might be interested in hanging some beautiful art, don't you see?"

Jane fingered the giraffe brooch and suppressed a smile. "You see and I perceive. Your paintings are pretty, and I'm sure you'll find a proper outlet for them."

The young man shook his head. "I don't think so. I've tried just about everywhere. But you do think they're pretty?"

"Yes. Good day, Mr. Leroy." She pressed a button on the desk. "Angie, tell Phil to bring in the ad copy for the spread in Gourmet."

She thumbed through the appointment calendar on her desk. It was nine o'clock. At ten a meeting with Jordan James about a possible fall show, at ten-thirty ditto with Gordon Hassler, at noon lunch with Maggie French and a reporter from Flower Children Magazine to discuss personality and character of flowers as depicted in Maggie's paintings. Jane had insisted on being present, because no, Maggie could not speak for herself, at least not without getting into a lawsuit. One near-miss was enough for Jane Blaiser's favorite client. At three o'clock she would examine what George had come up with in the way of a new contract for Carson Trumbull and check on preparations for his upcoming show. She ruefully recalled her last meeting with him. Mr. Leroy has a point, she thought. Artists like Trumbull do want to "see things as they really are" — profusely green and bankable. Economic not artistic reality. But being of a realistic business bent herself, she knew that the popular Trumbull, churning out work as he did, was producing a glutted market, and before long no market at all for his work. She toyed with the idea of not renewing his contract. She would get short-term notoriety for insanity and long-term kudos for foresight. The publicity a Trumbull-Blasier brouhaha would generate would be both free and lucrative. She frowned. George had been working hard on the contract. But her eyes danced: BLAISER DROPS TRUMBULL! The show would be exciting, especially exciting. The end would be like the beginning, only a doubly big deal. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in, Phil." She closed her appointment book with satisfaction, then fingered the button again. "Angie, no calls 'til eleven o'clock."

* * *

Alan Blaiser pulled his coat collar closer to his face. Jane had warned him it was spring in name only and that he had better not discard his woolen coat just yet, but he hadn't listened to her. Some red and yellow tulips along Park Avenue bobbed in the breeze. He clenched his teeth. The weather would just have to learn to cooperate with the calendar. His shoulders hunched forward, he turned down 64 Street and walked toward Lexington Avenue. Jane would be surprised. He enjoyed catching her at off moments and treasured those few occasions when he had succeeded. He had canceled all morning appointments. Digby would rearrange them for him, taking some himself. At the corner of Lexington Avenue he made two purchases, a newspaper and a cornucopia of flowers. He discarded all but several sheets of the newspaper, wrapping the remainder around the flowers.

"Spring is news!" he beamed at the vendor. He continued down Lexington for half a block, eyes bright, nose red.

* * *

"I'll announce you, Mr. Blaiser," she said doubtfully, "but it will throw Jane off if you just march in. That Gourmet spread is turning out to be ticklish work, and there is a deadline."

"That's all right, Angie," he said bravely. "I can wait." He bent over her appointment book. "She can squeeze me in before Mr. — uh — Jordan."

"That's Mr. James."

"Yes, well, whatever. But perhaps my flowers can get in earlier?"

"I'm really sorry, but it will —"

"Only throw her off, I know."

"I'll put them in...