Shrimpy, plump Becky Birdie stumbled into her infinitesimal bathroom, bearing a chalice on which an emory board and a toothbrush lay crossed. A terrycloth robe, unbelted, clung to her legs in the humid June air. She held the chalice aloft and intoned:
Spirit of Life, come to me, come to me.
Halted, she peered out her one narrow window into that of the neighbor across from her and called out sweetly:
--Come over, Ralph Waldo the XXIInd! Come over, you fearless Unitarian.