Compared to the other emotional blows she had endured that day, this news should have been only a minor slap in the face, but to Karen it was almost the last straw. At least Mark was honest. He wanted to forgive and forget (and give him credit, she thought bitterly, for avoiding the time-worn and hideously inappropriate cliche) only because hostility between them would threaten a cherished relationship.

One last effort, she thought. I've come this far without cracking… "Ruth was mistaken," she said coolly. "I don't care whether I see you or not. As for being civil- if I understand you correctly, my problem has always been an excess of civility rather than a lack of it. You're the one who has trouble being polite to people. If you intend to change your ways you can start by letting me get in out of the rain."

Meekly Mark opened the gate and stood back.

"Karen?"

Something in his voice stopped her as she started up the walk. She turned. He was smiling-a genuine smile this time, the rare, well-remembered expression that had once made her very bones melt. Ten years vanished like blown smoke.

"Congratulations," he said. "When did you learn to start fighting back?"

THE rain continued all night, dripping mournfully from dull skies, but for some reason Karen didn't wallow in chocolate as she had planned. Supping virtuously on soup and salad, she realized that the encounter with Mark had actually lifted her spirits. Perhaps it was simply that she had finally sunk so low there was no way to go but up. However, she knew she had been subconsciously dreading the possibility of such a meeting ever since she returned to Washington. Had she but known Mark had renewed his former acquaintance with Ruth and Pat, she would have had greater cause to be concerned. There was nothing surprising about it; they had once been close friends. But to think that Ruth, sly Ruth, hadn't mentioned Mark…

No, that wasn't fair. Ruth was never sly. Tactful, sensitive, considerate of other people's feelings… Why should Ruth suppose it mattered to her? The mere fact that Ruth had avoided the subject-hadn't mentioned the invitation or its cancellation-that, in itself, implied an assumption Ruth had no right to make.

At any rate, the worst was over and, as is so often the case, the reality had not been as bad as the anticipation. Besides, she was proud of herself for standing up to him in the end. Two head-to-head confrontations in one day, first with Julie and then with Mark, and she hadn't done badly. Thanks in part to the inspiration of a bossy old witch! I could have sworn I actually heard her voice, Karen thought, smiling.

Mrs. MacDougal might not be a genuine witch, but she was unquestionably a canny lady with a profound understanding of human nature. In the next few days Karen suffered frequent spells of depression, but as Mrs. Mac had predicted, something usually happened to shake her out of them. Mrs. Mac administered a lot of the shaking herself. She nagged Karen unmercifully about the shop, and kept her so busy she had little time to brood. She made appointments with friends who might have things to sell, and bullied Karen into keeping the appointments. She introduced her to realtors in Maryland, Virginia, and the District, bought and borrowed books for her to read, and quizzed her on the contents. There were times when Karen wished she could tell Mrs. Mac to go to Borneo- or someplace even hotter-and she developed a nervous habit of reaching for her notebook every time the telephone rang. Mrs. MacDougal had given her the notebook; she never failed to ask what progress Karen had made, and Karen knew she had better be able to report progress.

It wasn't easy. If she had realized how many endless and diverse details must be covered before she could even open for business, she would never have had the courage to begin. What terrified her most were the practical aspects-keeping books, borrowing money, arranging for permits, dealing with realtors, regulations, and taxes. Sheer nerves would have kept her awake nights if she hadn't been so tired that she often fell sleep over the book she was reading.

The books were the ones Mrs. Mac had supplied, on the care of antique textiles and the history of costume. At first it was only fear of the old lady's acerbic tongue that made Karen give up her favorite mysteries and romances, but before long she became genuinely fascinated. Her ability to conquer a new subject increased her shaky self-confidence. After all, research was what she had been trained to do; the basic methods were the same for any field. But in this case she could actually touch and feel the objects of her study, and apply the methods she read about. The clothes themselves thrilled her. It was not only their beauty and their charm that moved her, but a growing sense of identification with the past. "Jumping Jack" MacDougal had showered his pretty young bride with jewels and furs and lovely gowns, the best money could buy. As she and Karen sorted the clothing, Mrs. Mac's reminiscences brought to life a world that had been as remote to Karen as ancient Greece-the last lazy summer afternoon of aristocracy before the Great War.

Mrs. Mac had worn the chiffon-and-lace evening dress at the captain's dinner on a 1913 voyage of the Lusitania, two years before the luxury liner was sunk by German bombs, precipitating the United States' entrance into the war. The black lace over oyster satin had attended the first performance of The Three-Cornered Hat, with Leonide Massine, at London's Alhambra Theatre in 1919. (And what, Karen wondered, had Jumping Jack thought of the ballet? Had he slept through it-had he snored?) The Schiaparelli suit, with huge hand mirrors in lieu of jacket buttons, had dazzled the dignitaries at FDR's first inaugural. Karen could almost see Mrs. Roosevelt's well-bred eyebrows rise at the sight of it. She felt as if she were touching history itself.

Not that Mrs. MacDougal wasted time mourning her lost youth. The expectation of playing one last practical joke on her son had given her a burst of demonic energy; she dashed around the house chortling and chuckling and driving her assistants wild. Karen was not one of them; her offers of help had been politely refused, and she soon realized they were unnecessary.

Though Mrs. Mac blandly denied it, she had obviously been planning the move for months. The larger, more valuable antiques were going into storage until their owner returned. If, as she cheerfully remarked, she survived the trip, she would then select the things she wanted to keep or give away. The rest would go to Sotheby's. Since an inventory had been kept up-to-date, this part of the moving process was relatively simple.

What wasn't simple was the question of how to dispose of the thousands of less valuable odds and ends Mrs. MacDougal had accumulated over the years. These ranged from modern pottery to Spode and Royal Prussian dinnerware, from paperback novels to first editions-and included, of course the clothing and accessories. There were enough of the latter to stock a small shop in themselves-hats, shoes, handbags, scarves, gloves, belts, costume jewelry. Karen's last compunctions about taking them vanished when she saw the piles of discarded miscellany grow to mountainous proportions.

The clothing dated from around 1910, when Mrs. Mac had attained debutante status-and a millionaire husband. However, several of her cronies had garments that had been stored away since their mothers' and grandmothers' day, and before long Ruth's neat little house resembled a flea market. Every wardrobe was full, the bedroom furniture was heaped with fabric, and dresses hung from temporary stands. Karen was glad Pat was not there to see it, and comment on it.

Something else happened that week to stiffen Karen's sagging spirits-the arrival of a United Parcel man with several boxes. The surgical precision of the wrapping told Karen who had packed them; the folded corners of the paper looked as if they had been measured with a ruler and pressed with a hot iron. Inside one box was a typed note. It was cool and formal, and very forgiving. It deplored her impetuous and ill-considered action in leaving so precipitously and requested-implicitly, if not in so many words-her humble appreciation for the consideration that was being shown her. The boxes contained her clothes and personal belongings, swathed neatly in tissue. Not a scrap had been overlooked, including a couple of limp bras she had meant to throw away, and a pair of sneakers with holes in both toes.