In walked Dick Franz with his look of a warlock. Flowing gray hair, furry eyebrows like mice hunched above his sheer cliff of a nose, black jacket over black shirt, stovepipe legs in black jeans. Without even saying hello to anyone, he darted into the hall bathroom, and before Elsie could stop herself (wait, had she tried to stop herself?) she pictured him turning into a little dog — no, a large dog, or at least tall enough to lift its leg and aim into the bowl. Then he was back, man-shaped again, striding into the living room to mingle with the other guests.