It was three in the morning when Vag strode into the room on Thursday. Having placed his water skis above the fireplace and his aqua-lungs in the closet, he greeted me; "Gad but it is disgusting to be back."

Undaunted, I replied, "It's a matter of necessity and point of view."

"Necessity," he said as he reached for his gin flask, "is a matter of social poition and for that matter so is point of view."

Mildly peeved I said, "Then why come back?"

"Noblesse oblige." He then rummaged through the refrigerator and took my last bottle of Schweppes. "It is especially galling to return at this time of year."

"Why?" asked I, a longtime devotee of flowers and hummingbirds.

"Why?" sneered he, "This season turns my stomach with its vulgarity, and the added aroma of the nitrogenous stimulant they are plying the Yard grass with is an added guarantee." Vag stirred the gin, ice, and tonic and returned to the refrigerator.

Waving his manicured forefinger at me, Vag continued. "Wherever you go, the Ivy League rites of spring surround you. The sight would be merely distastefully humorous if it were not for the sheer numbers of these primitive people. I shall never dabble in such earthy totems of the tribe."

Vag continued to rummage through the ice box.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"The matter? The matter?," he asked. "Where are the limes you fool? I must have limes if I am to finish preparing my drink."

"The stores don't have any that aren't moldy," I replied.

"One can't even count on the limes these days," said Vag as he rushed headlong to bed.