"But you can't wear it."

"Can't! Why can't I?"

"Because you're the brunest kind of brunette. And dark
people have a special curse hanging over them that makes
them want to wear red. It's fatal. That tie makes you look
like a Mafia murderer dressed for business."

"I knew it," groaned Heyl. "Something told me." He sank
into a chair at the side of her desk, a picture of mock
dejection. "And I chose it. Deliberately. I had black
ones, and blue ones, and green ones. And I chose--this."
He covered his face with a shaking hand.

Fanny Brandeis leaned back in her chair, and laughed, and
laughed, and laughed. Surely she hadn't laughed like that
in a year at least.

"You're a madman," she said, finally.

At that Heyl looked up with his singularly winning smile.
"But different. Concede that, Fanny. Be fair, now.
Refreshingly different."

"Different," said Fanny, "doesn't begin to cover it. Well,
now you're here, tell me what you're doing here."

"Seeing you."