Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish stopped by this afternoon; her absence has been carefully noticed by all and she brushed it off with some sort of nonsense about "taking a rest" and "getting a job", by which I would suppose she meant some charity position like the head of Pie Makers for Dafur. In reality--a state which seldom exists here--she came to inquire about Jeremy's return date and how to prepare for the official state visit of The Great Northern Court.

Jeremy's return date is this coming Saturday and when asked what we should prepare for him, I couldn't help but quip, "A squadron of 21-year-old Latino cadets to salute him." We had a good giggle over that, but I assured Mrs. S-F that we had already over-ordered KettleOne for Jeremy and Glenlivet for The Countess. The rest would all come naturally.

Suddenly, a tall, bronzed boy walked in wearing just sandals and a small--very small--swim suit. He had the distinct look and air of a Brooklyn, Italian boy with black curly hair and that prominent nose; I've seen him many times, and we exchange pleasantries, but I have no idea to his name. "Is the beach crowded," I asked (it serves not just as an opening to conversation, but gives me a barometer of what to expect later).


"It's OK," he replied, as I heard Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish's cup of tea rattling in its saucer. He waltzed out with the entire room following with their eyes; he had a well-fed--in all the right places--, but appealing body.



"I keep a pot of beans on the stove for boys like that," Mamie sighed, and we giggled again.