Peering through the dotted swiss curtains, Ingrid discerned Mr. Crispin St. James toddling up the front walk. Crispin and she had been aquainted for years, having met at a soiree in Hollywood back in 1935. At twenty years of age Ingrid had just published her first and foremost work, and was becoming something of a celebrity. Crispin was a b-movie actor, known for his mediocre imitation of John Barrymore.

Ingrid groaned a deep and lingering groan. Crispin had always been something of thorn in her flesh. While in their youth they had never been close, but now in their twilight years Ingrid found that he, like herself,was one of the last of the 'old crowd' left. They were forced by reason of years into a friendship which Crispin viewed as initimate.

Before she could reach the door, Crispin had gaily flung himself through it.

"Hello old egg! Delightful morning, just thought I'd pop by. Good heavens! Still wearing that old thing? Really dear girl, this is 1995! You ought to have thrown that in the rag bag long ago! Ah!" he cried, spying the tea pot. "The beverage of Earls! Do give a fellow a spot of liquid refreshment, there's a good lass!"

"Good Morning Cris. Come down to the kitchen and I'll brew a fresh pot." And Ingrid resigned herself to a wasted morning.

Crispin had never become famous. He had never aquired anything but debt, and his sole contribution to humanity came in the form of a kind hearted and highly motivated son. After his mother Helene had passed away Edward, by now a many millioned software executive, had taken his aging parent in, housing him in a small guest cottage. The gated community was not more than 25 minutes from Ingrid's home, and Crispin was forever 'just popping by".

"Oh Ingrid, you don't know how I suffer! Those young hellions are driving my distracted!" he wailed, flicking at a piece of lint that had the audacity to attach itself to his immaculate tweed jacket. Ingrid wordlessly handed him a fresh cup of tea. "Oh thank you love." he said graciously, and settled himself into a wingbacked chair. "Did I tell you what they did last week? No? Well,"

And he launched into another litany of woe and mistreatment. His son had married a much younger woman, and they had three children aged 11, 5, and 3. For whatever reason they had decided that they preferred their grandfather's company to anything else, and spent many an hour gaily romping through his cottage. Their parents thought it was adorable, and since Crispin enjoyed free room and board, he was obliged to lay aside his abhorrence of children and tolerate their company as best he could. However, he now spent the vast majority of each day away from home.

"And then they upset the aquarium! The whole thing! Fish, rocks, and water everywhere! Eddie laughed! Thought it was a good joke! Good JOKE! I'll tell you what, that's not how children were brought up to behave in our day! I told him so myself and he told me not to be such an old fossil. Me! An old fossil! Well! It was a mercy that his mother and I raised him differently. He'd never have made his way in life without a proper upbringing." He fumed and fussed for another quarter of an hour, until his wounded feelings had been given full vent.

Then, he asked how Ingrid was getting on, and promptly answered the question for her.

"Much the same as always I should expect. Still plotting a new work. Still hoping the inspiration for the great American novel will strike, eh old girl? I thought as much. " He nodded sagely and stopped chatting long enough to take a sip of his well cooled tea. He spoke with a faintly British accent, something he'd aquired years ago in the B-movie days while playing butlers, valets, and aristocrats. It was a total farce, as was his profession of being distantly related to some branch of the English aristocracy. Ingrid knew full well that he'd run away from a pig farm in Iowa at the tender age of 15.

She would have given anything to be able to contradict his last presumptious comment, but alas it was only too true. She had never really stopped writing, and now an incurable desire to write something truly great had taken an unrelenting hold on her. Unfortunately, she was forced to admit that the results were to literature what Crispin was to acting. Third rate at best.

"You know me too well Cris. And you visit too often."
"It's such a comfort to know that the sun will always rise and Ingrid will always scribble. But really dear thing, it would be something of a pleasure to hear that you'd spent a week doing anything else. Why don't you get yourself a hobby? Or a beau?"
"At my age! Don't be ridiculous! I'm perfectly content without a man cluttering the place morning, noon, and night. I didn't need one at twenty, and I've certainly not developed a need for one at 80." Ingrid replied.
"What do you mean at your age! You're only two years older than myself! We're in our prime, dear girl, in our prime!"

Crispin was 78, and by no means considered himself 'through'.

"Speaking of, you'll never guess what I've got planned for Friday." He leaned forward in his best imitation of a conspiritorial air.

"Astound me dear fellow" drawled Ingrid in a flawless imitation of Crispin's accent, which escaped his notice entirely.

"I've got my eye on Edith from the Senior's Guild."
"Is that all?"
"No! I've heard that Fred Waring is courting her as well."
"She's the youngest and most attractive of us. I shouldn't be surpised if Gil Anderson was also in the running Cris. She's far too young for you. I shouldn't think you stood a chance" said Ingrid in her most encouraging form.

"Well I like that! Common fellows like Fred and Gil can't claim connections to the great British family of-" his boast was cut short by the unmerciful Ingrid.
"You can't either Cris."
"Well, you're the only one who knows anything about that." Sniffed the would-be aristocrat.
"Edith is newly widowed; perhaps she's not even ready to consider a new relationship- have any of you octogenarian suitors considered that?"

"Oh yes, we needn't worry about that." said Crispin, placidly smoothing the crease in his corduroys. "I've reason to believe she's lonely, and so being is extremely susceptible to romance. I'm quite convinced she has no intention of living the remainder of her days alone with her poodle and her millions."

"Well I'm relieved to hear that her personality is the main attraction to you. As always."
"Why Ingrid!" gasped Crispin. " I'm shocked! My sainted Helene was a very wealthy woman, but you needn't assume that was why I married her. We were blissfully happy together!"

"I suppose that's why she left everything to Eddie. She knew you were too disinterested in money to appreciate it."
"I won't hear another word about it! Not another word! How can you be so... so..."
"Honest?"
He stared slackjawed for a moment, recalling not for the first time that Ingrid had always been entirely too cheeky for her own good. But, realizing that he hadn't a leg to stand on, he let it pass.

"T'any rate, I've got a new and formiddable plan, and I'm quite sure that you'll enjoy your part in it!"