I went straight upstairs, got the bird cage, took it down and left it in front of herdoor. That settled that. Or so I imagined until the next morning when, as I wasleaving for work, I saw the cage perched on a sidewalk ash-can waiting for thegarbage collector. Rather sheepishly, I rescued it and carried it back to my room, acapitulation that did not lessen my resolve to put Holly Golightly absolutely out of mylife. She was, I decided, "a crude exhibitionist," "a time waster," "an utter fake":someone never to be spoken to again.

And I didnt. Not for a long while. We passed each other on the stairs with loweredeyes. If she walked into Joe Bells, I walked out. At one point, Madame SapphiaSpanella, the coloratura and roller-skating enthusiast who lived on the first floor,circulated a petition among the brownstones other tenants asking them to join herin having Miss Golightly evicted: she was, said Madame Spanella, "morallyobjectionable" and the "perpetrator of all-night gatherings that endangered thesafety and sanity of her neighbors." Though I refused to sign, secretly I felt MadameSpanella had cause to complain. But her petition failed, and as April approachedMay, the open-windowed, warm spring nights were lurid with the party sounds, theloud-playing phonograph and martini laughter that emanated from Apt. 2.

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