applied at the turn of the century. He was alone with his dreams and his hand mower. He was thinking of high-rise bachelor apartments, of building superintendents and professional repairmen, of plumbers and electricians. Finally he heard the voice.
"Mr. Earbrow," the voice said. "Oh, Mr. Earbrow."
It was a woman's voice, the woman's voice. Gillian Blake was leaning against the back fence that separated their properties. The only other time Morton had seen Gillian was at the party. He had congratulated her on something. What was it? Yes. On being the only woman in the neighborhood who didn't hang over back fences and offer advice to neighbors. And here she was hanging over the back fence, with that soft, frilly housecoat.
"You seem to be working so hard," Gillian said.
"Wouldn't you rather use our power mower? We're not using it today."
Morton Earbrow found himself staring. Staring hard at her slim, exciting face. Then staring hard at her slim, exciting body. Her arms were slim and exciting, too. Lightly tanned arms and a fine coating of sunbleached hair. Those arms, he decided, had never lifted anything heavier than a champagne glass. Maybe a tennis racquet – but that just for effect. She was, he suddenly realized, part and parcel of his most glorious dreams.
"Thank you, Mrs. Blake," he said, "but…."
"You're welcome to it," Gillian said.
"To it?" He hadn't wanted to say that. He knew he was a fool. He knew she was talking about the power mower. Despite the phrasing, the way she talked, the way she looked. Despite all that, she was talking about a power mower.
In point of fact, Gillian was not talking about a power mower. If there was anything in the world that held less interest than a power mower, she couldn't imagine what it might be. It was just that, on the evidence, the quickest way to Morton Earbrow's heart would probably be astride a power mower.
"The mower is in the garage," she said.
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Blake," he said.
Morton vaulted the fence easily, and walked beside her to the garage. It was cool in the garage, cool and dark. He could see through an open door what must be a den. Cooler and darker. There was a couch in the den. Gillian leaned in the doorway and looked at him. He could feel that aching sensation in his groin, and he turned away and looked at the power mower.
"You work very hard," Gillian said. "I hear you working at night, too."
"Well, the house needs a lot of … work," he said.
"Don't you ever just sit around and relax?"
"Not very often," he said. "It's an old house."
"My husband doesn't sit around and relax either," Gillian said. She wondered whether she was going too fast. "But our house is a new house. It's just that he's never home any more. He has work in the city."
"You both work in the city," Morton said. "I mean I've heard the show."
"I'm surprised," Gillian said. "Very few men listen to us."
"Well, I, uh, better be going," Morton said. "Lots of mowing to do today. We're going to be seeding later on."
"Really?" Gillian said. "How interesting."
Morton thought that was delivered in an ambiguous manner, but decided against pursuing it.
"Maybe you had better test the mower before you go," Gillian said. "It hasn't been used in some time."
Morton Earbrow took the machine out into the sunlight beside the swimming pool. He looked at the water, at the small waves stirred up by the wind off the Sound, and he looked at the mower. He realized it was a fine machine, a self-propelled rotary, with a 3 1/2- horsepower, 4-cycle engine, not to mention an automatic starter, a push-button hydraulic fuel pumper, an automatic compression release an a die-cast magnesium alloy housing unit. A beautiful machine, actually, and Morton Earbrow wondered why he couldn't drum up more enthusiasm. He flicked the switch, the machine came alive, purred for a full minute and died.
"Something seems to be wrong," he observed.
"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious," Gillian said.
"We'll have it fixed in a jiffy," Morton said.
He spoke with confidence. And there was, in truth, no reason why Morton Earbrow should have doubts. He had in the past few months repaired chain saws and drills and sanding machines and hand saws and hammers and lathes and he had never yet encountered the machine that could resist his skillful touch.
As he began testing the ignition system, the spark plugs, the distributor, the carburetor, Gillian disappeared. When she came back