I was walking along the streets of Paris. I had just arrived, having come to talk to a woman for whom I was working. She was a seemingly refined business woman (probably 60 years old), tall and slender. Dressed all in white, she somewhat resembled Miss Haversham (a character from Charles Dickens' novel Great Expectations). She had a table set up right on the sidewalk, and from this table she was conducting her business. When I walked up to her, she was standing and talking on a telephone. She was haughty and disdainful when she addressed me.

She had hired me to produce several television shows for her. The first show was supposed to be broadcast that very evening. I was nervous because I didn't feel prepared. Thus it came as an enormous relief when she informed me that that evening's production had been canceled. I would still be responsible for other shows later in the week, but I felt that I would have time to adequately prepare for those.

The lady was also upset with me about another matter. Apparently, about a year earlier, I had written a letter to another woman in Paris. On that old letter, in the upper right corner I had drawn a small picture of a smiley face. Now, the woman with whom I was talking found such a drawing extremely offensive, gauche, a breach of etiquette. For myself I was somewhat amazed by the ardor of her disdain. I saw little reason for so much beratement merely on account of a smiley face. But what astounded me even more was that a letter which I had written so long ago, to a person I had already forgotten, could now be the source of so much ire. It hardly made sense.

The lady began talking to me in French, rattling off a number which she expected me to write down. But I couldn't quite understand the number she was uttering, even though she repeated it several times. I had the feeling she was deliberately trying to ridicule my knowledge of French. I began counting in French, "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, seis ...," both to refresh my memory and to show that I knew my numbers. I was thinking the number she was saying might be thirteen or fourteen, but when I reached those numbers, I knew I was wrong. I simply didn't know what she was saying.

Nevertheless, even though the lady derided me so, I was glad she was talking in French, and I wanted to stay there with her. However it was unclear whether I would be able to stay.

Finally I noticed that someone else was sitting at the table: a beautiful, blonde-haired girl (16-17 years old). She was robed in a short dress which revealed her shapely legs. As I looked at her, she looked straight back into my eyes. I realized the girl was a protégé of the lady. It was instantly clear to me that if I remained and worked for the lady, the girl and I would end up having a relationship. It was inevitable. I liked the idea, and now more than ever I wanted to stay and work for the woman. I didn't know whether the lady would frown on my having a relationship with the girl, but I knew if I stayed, the relationship would happen.

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