And as she sidles up beside you to let you share her scrapbook, you can't help but understand. Liz Renay will always be, at heart, the fifteen-year old bargirl from Mesa, Arizona, astounded by her success so far, but nonetheless always wanting more. Not that she shouldn't be amazed. She has every right to be proud for she's proven tough enough to survive the men who've picked her up and used her along the way--from New York to Los Angeles--even though she's hardly about to resist those who'll pick her up and use her in the future.

So it's far from the final fade-out as she says goodby to Cohen and Coppola, hello to Stuart and Tobalina. It's much, much too early for Liz Renay to write her epitaph. But when she's ready, it'll be there. In fact, she's already composed a little verse on the subject of female liberation that could itself do perfectly well:

Make things better?

I don't see how.

I don't want to be an equal.

I'm privileged now!