As she started to open the door, she heard Julie's shrill voice. "Karen! Karen, come on out; here's an old friend who's dying to see you."

Karen was tempted to close the door and pretend she had not heard. Several "old friends" had visited the shop since she started working, and when she was feeling particularly low she suspected Julie of calling all her former acquaintances and inviting them to come and gloat over her. Morbid and absurd, of course-but she still winced when she thought of Miriam Montgomery, nee Spaulding, and Shreve Danforth. Shreve was now Mrs. Assistant Secretary of State Givens; she was as slim and sleekly muscled as she had been ten years ago, when she and Karen had competed for top seed on the university women's tennis team. They had competed in another arena as well…

Shreve had not forgotten; she had ordered Karen about like a servant, her eyes bright with malice. Just like Shreve; but Karen had rather liked Miriam Montgomery. The latter's cool indifference had really hurt.

Julie hallooed again, more emphatically. Karen knew she was in for it. She eased the door open a little more and looked out.

Even on a sunny day the interior of the shop was not brightly lighted. According to Julie, the dusky illumination created an atmosphere of relaxation and peace. (It also made it difficult for customers to spot stains, scratches, and other minor imperfections in the merchandise.) However, the newcomers were standing directly under a Delft chandelier, and such light as its sixty watts produced shone directly on the face of the taller of the pair.

For a moment Karen felt as if a pair of giant hands had seized her body and squeezed. Hearing, vision, sensation, even breathing were suspended. Then her battered senses rallied, though her hands, fallen nervelessly to her sides, were sticky with sudden perspiration. She had not seen Mark for ten years. Yet recognition had been instantaneous and overwhelming.

He hadn't changed-and yet he had, in a number of small ways. Numbly her mind listed them. The chestnut-brown hair was sleekly, expertly styled, whereas once it had been tousled and unruly. He had tugged at his hair whenever he was excited or intensely interested in something, and he almost always was excited about a theory, an idea, a vision. His expression was intent and slightly frowning, but the parallel lines between his dark brows were deeper now. That was how she remembered him, grave and intent, not smiling. He didn't smile often. He was too serious, too committed to the causes he cared about-more than he cared about individuals…Of medium height and rather slightly built, he seemed taller now. It must be the way he carried himself, straight and erect instead of casually slouching, with a new air of authority.

The greatest change was in his clothes. She couldn't remember ever having seen him in anything but jeans and a faded shirt. She had teased him about that shirt, accusing him of owning only one, which he washed every night and never pressed. Sometimes, when the weather was freezing, he condescended to wear an old navy wind-breaker, worn through at both elbows.

He was now wearing a tan trenchcoat that looked as if it had just come off the rack in one of the more expensive men's stores. It was open in front, exposing a shiny-white shirt and a dignified dark-blue tie-the conventional Washington bureaucrat's uniform, predating the Yuppie era by several decades.

The woman with him was blond and petite and very pretty.

The ringing in Karen's ears subsided and she heard Julie say, "Yes, she's back. Poor dear, I was glad to help her out. You know how it is, she's pretty low. I'm afraid she's changed a great deal. I'll go get her, I know she'd love to see you."

Julie started toward the office. Mark raised his hand as if to detain her, but then shrugged and let her go.

Karen fled, hoping the obstacle course in the shop would slow Julie long enough to let her make her escape. She snatched her coat as she headed for the back door, not because she gave a damn about getting wet, but because if the coat was on the hook Julie would know she had not gone far. She closed one door just as Julie burst through the other, and darted into an adjoining doorway, where she huddled ankle-deep in soggy trash.

Hearing the back door open, she pressed herself back into the alcove. Julie's voice echoed hollowly. "Karen? Where the hell are you?"

Karen put her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders. Her heel had crushed a plastic trash bag. The stench of rotting fruit was so strong it made her stomach twist.

She went to the end of the alley and around the block, and stood under an awning across the street until she saw Mark leave. He didn't look in her direction. His eyes were fixed on the face of the woman, who was smiling up at him from under a very becoming rain hat. After they had turned the corner, Karen crossed the street and entered the shop.

"Where did you go?" Julie demanded.

Karen had had time to invent an excuse-not a very convincing excuse, but it was better than none. "I thought I heard a cat crying outside."

"So you chased it all the way down the alley and around the block?" Julie's eyes narrowed. "By a strange coincidence you just missed an old friend of yours."

"Oh, really? Who?"

"Mark Brinckley."

"Mark… Oh, of course. What shame I wasn't here."

"He'll be back," Julie said, not one whit deceived by Karen's pretense that she had forgotten Mark's name. "His girlfriend is interested in that armoire. She pretended to be interested in the lowboy, but it was really the armoire.

If she comes in while I'm gone, you can give her the usual ten percent, but only if she asks; make it look like a special favor to the dear friend of an old friend. You know the procedure."

"I ought to. It was the first thing you taught me." Karen started to unbutton her coat.

"Don't bother to take off your coat, I'm closing," Julie said. "Mark said to tell you he was looking forward to seeing you again."

Karen doubted that he had said it, or, if he had, that it was anything more than conventional politeness. She did not reply, so Julie abandoned indirection and went straight for the jugular.

"Weren't you engaged to him once?"

"People didn't get engaged in those days, remember?"

"I've forgotten what we used to call it, but I know what I mean-and so do you. He's not married."

Karen shrugged. "The lady may not have been his wife, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one."

"Oh, my, what a little cynic you are. I happen to know he's not married because the Post ran an interview with him. You heard he was elected to Congress last year, didn't you?"

"Oh, was he?" Karen turned to the mirror and stared blindly and intently at its clouded surface. She had heard of Mark's victory. It had not been one of the big, exciting races, but she had heard about it. Mostly from Jack. He had been very interested in that particular House seat.

"So," she said, "he's living in Washington now?"

"Well, darling, he has to when Congress is in session, now doesn't he? He's as gorgeous as ever, don't you think? Oh, I forgot-you didn't see him. Well, take my word; just standing next to him made me break out all over. You two had quite a thing going for a while, as I recall. When you and Jack ran off and got married, we were all surprised. Especially Mark. He couldn't have been too desperately crushed, though; he certainly consoled himself fast enough. Of course Shreve had been throwing herself at him all year. All he had to do was turn around, and there she was, ready and willing. From what I hear, she still is. Of course her husband is a lot older than she. You know how that is, don't you, sweetie? I wonder if Shreve knows about this new little lady. Mark didn't introduce her to me. I can't imagine why…"