I nodded obediently.

THE double bed in the master bedroom was mammoth. It was covered with a neat, pleated hot-pink spread. Quickly and efficiently, Angela took a clean sheet from the closet and spread it over the bed, all the while chatting easily.

"Did your friend discuss the financial arrangements with you?" she finally asked.

"No, he didn't mention anything."

"Gee, that's too bad." she said thoughtfully, "Well . . ." Long beckoning pause. She eyes me quietly, seductively.

She doesn't move her eyes, but business is business, after all. Slowly but firmly: "I charge a minimum of $25, usually more."

It was tough to resist. But I had promises to keep-a CRIMSON feature and a Spartan $15 expense account that I'd long since overspent.

"I'm sorry, but I've got only $20."

"Actually, I'm writing a novel," I lied. Newspaper publicity she could do without. "I need psychological material for my book. All you have to do is talk to me for a while-no sex at all-and I'll pay you for your time. I'm not trying to incriminate you in any way, because I'm not a cop, and whatever you tell me will be confidential. I only want to know how you think-about yourself, your work, and the men you sleep with."

She agreed almost instantly, though not without suspicion, and we went back into the living room to talk.

"You can pay me now," she said.

"I'll tell you what. I'll pay you ten now and the other ten later, if you talk to me honestly for an hour."

"A lady of the evening is always paid in advance, for whatever the service-whether it's for talk, or sex, or just going out to dinner," she said adamantly.

I had no choice, and paid.

Angela's "been in the life" for six years, since she was about twenty-two. I asked her how it all began.