Roger Halsted was clearly suffused with a controlled glee when he arrived at the monthly banquet of the Black Widowers. He unwound his scarf (it was a cold evening with considerably more than a hint of snow in the air--since half an inch of it already lay on the ground) and said, "Have I got a guest for you!"

Emmanuel Rubin looked at him over his scotch and soda and said peevishly, "Where were you? Even Tom Trumbull beat you to the drinks and we thought you were welching on the host's responsibility."

Halsted looked hurt and his high forehead grew pink. He said, "I called the restaurant. Henry-"

Henry had adjusted the bread baskets and seen to it that the bran muffins affected by Geoffrey Avalon were in plain view. He said, "Yes, Mr. Halsted. The company has been informed that you would be a little late. I believe Mr. Rubin is merely amusing himself at your expense."

Trumbull said, "What guest?"

"That's why I'm late. I had to pick him up in White Plains and it's snowing harder up there. I had to call the restaurant from a gas station."

"So where is he?" asked Mario Gonzalo, more than usually nattily dressed in a maroon blazer, matching striped shirt, and matching patterned tie.

"Downstairs. Men's room. His name is Jeremy At-wood; he's about sixty-five; and he has a problem."

Avalon from his considerably better than six feet of height drew his thick and graying eyebrows together. "I've been thinking, gentlemen, of this very matter. The original purpose of the Black Widowers consisted of nothing more than dining and conversation. We have now reached the point where we never fail to have a problem to agitate us and disturb our digestion. What happens when we can't find one? Do we disband?"

Gonzalo said, "Then we're back to conversation without a purpose. There's always Manny."

Rubin said, his sparse beard lifting noticeably, "Nothing I say is without a purpose, Mario. Failing all else, there's the vague hope my words may serve to educate you. For one thing, I can show you why your latest painting is completely wrong."

"You said you liked it," said Mario, frowning and stepping into the trap.

"Only out of relief when you said it was your last painting and only until I found out you meant it was your latest."

But Halsted's guest was coming up the stairs now. He moved rather slowly and he seemed tired. Halsted helped him off with his overcoat, and when the guest removed his hat, he showed himself to be quite bald. Only a fringe of white hair remained.

Halsted said, "Gentlemen, this is my guest, Jeremy At-wood. I met him through the fact that one of his nephews is a fellow teacher. Mr. Atwood, let me present the company."

By the time the introductions were completed and a glass of dry sherry had been pressed into Atwood's hand, Henry had the first course on the table. Rubin stared at it suspiciously.

"No liver?" he asked.

"No liver, Mr. Rubin," said Henry. "Kidney slices are the base."

"Oh, Lord," said Rubin, "what's the soup?"

"Cream of leek, Mr. Rubin."

"Coming and going. They get you coming and going," he grumbled, and tackled the kidney with a gingerly probing fork.

Drake, with a glimmer in his small eyes which meant he thought he was on the track of a fellow chemist, said, "What does your nephew teach, Mr. Atwood?"

Atwood said, in a surprisingly musical tenor, "English literature, I believe. I am not very well acquainted with him."

"I don't blame you," said Rubin at once. "Teachers of English literature have probably turned out more illiterates than have any other force of illegitimate culture in the world."

"You see, Mr. Atwood," said Gonzalo, striving for his own back, "Manny Rubin is a writer whose works have never been discussed by any teacher who was sober at the time."

Trumbull spoke at once to cut off Rubin's retort. "What's your own line of work, Mr. Atwood?"

"I'm retired now, but once upon a time I was a civil engineer," said Atwood.

Avalon said, "You do not have to answer any questions now, Mr. Atwood. That will come with the dessert."

It turned out to be unnecessary advice since Rubin had the bit in his teeth now and was off and running. With the soup, of which he had little, he developed the thesis that teachers of English generally and of English literature in particular had as their peculiar object the placing of the English language in chains and the making of literature a fossil in murky amber.

Over the main course, roast stuffed duck, Rubin proceeded to probe the motives of the English-teaching criminals and found it to consist of an embittered and hate-filled envy of those who could, past and present, use the English language as a tool.

"Like Emmanuel Rubin, of course," said Gonzalo in a stage whisper.

"Like me," said Rubin, unabashed. "I know more grammar than any so-called English teacher and have read more literature more closely than they can possibly have done, any of them. The thing is I don't let the grammar bind me or the literature force me."

"Anyone who writes ungrammatical twaddle can say the same," said Avalon.

"That means something, Jeff," said Rubin hotly, "only if you're prepared to say that I write ungrammatical twaddle."

Having disposed of his wild rice and somewhat neglecting the stuffing, Rubin began an eloquent dissertation on the damage done to young minds by those academic delinquents and took on the other five members as each raised objections until the poire au vin was served and the coffee was poured.

"Can I have a glass of milk, instead?" said Atwood apologetically.

Henry's assent was lost in Rubin's triumphant "There you are. Any English teacher would have said, 'May I have a glass of milk?' but Atwood knows he may. The question is, does the restaurant have milk to serve? Therefore, 'can' he, not 'may' he?"

Atwood said, "Actually, my grammar has always been poor and maybe I should have said-"

Halsted rapped his spoon against the water glass and said, "Enough grammar, Manny, enough. It's time for our guest."

"And that's why," said Rubin in a parting shot, "I don't collect reviews, because any English-lit type who would waste his time writing reviews-"

"He collects only favorable ones," said Gonzalo. "I know. He showed me his empty scrapbook."

Halsted's spoon kept up a series of chimes and finally he said, "My friend Stuart-Mr. Atwood's nephew- happened to mention, a couple of weeks ago, that Mr. Atwood had a literary problem. Naturally, I was interested-for reasons we all understand-and inquired further. It turned out Stu didn't know much about it. I got in touch with Mr. Atwood and he told me enough to make me think he would make an excellent guest for this meeting. Since I am hosting and he kindly consented to come-"

Avalon harumphed stentoriously. "I trust Mr. Atwood understands that he may be cross-examined rather-"

"I explained it all thoroughly, Jeff," said Halsted. "I also explained to him that everything that goes on here is confidential. As it happens, Mr. Atwood is rather interested in a solution to his problem, and is anxious to have us help."

Trumbull's dark face lined into savage creases. "God damn it, Roger, you haven't guaranteed a solution, have you?"

"No, but we've got a fair record," said Halsted complacently.

"All right, then. Let's begin… Henry! Is the brandy on the way?… Who does the grilling, Roger?"

"Why, you, Tom."

The brandy was being poured neatly into the small glasses. Atwood raised his hand in a timid negative and Henry passed him. He turned his bright blue eyes toward Trumbull, "Am I to be grilled?"

"Only a manner of speaking, sir. We are interested in your literary problem. Would you care to tell us about it in whatever way you please? We will ask questions when that seems advisable, if you don't mind."