She went on to tell Cheryl how Horton had reacted to her offer of a tip, adding, "Looking back on it, I realize why he was so amused, but I couldn't possibly have anticipated what was going to happen."

"Of course not."

"Anyway, it's no great tragedy. I'm sure the car was insured. Mrs. Mac would really be upset if someone had been hurt, but fortunately that wasn't the case. Would you let Alexander in, please, and we'll decide where we're going to go."

When Cheryl opened the door she saw the linens draping the clotheslines in back, and offered to help bring them in. Two hours later they were still sitting in the kitchen eating crackers and cheese and talking clothes, and it was Karen who finally changed the subject. "I'm being very rude. You must be starved."

"Not really. But you-"

"I'm trying to diet anyway. I'm sure I can find something here-salad, tuna-"

"I couldn't impose on you like that." Karen smiled. "Cheryl, you don't really want to go to a movie, do you?"

"Sure, if you do."

"There's nothing around I want to see." "And everyplace is so crowded on Saturday night…"

"It's such a pain getting dressed to go out…"

Karen couldn't keep her face straight, and after a moment Cheryl grinned back at her, albeit somewhat shamefacedly. "I'm so damned obvious. You knew all along I invited myself over here so I could play with your toys." "Saturday night is a bad night to be alone," Karen said, sobering. "You did me a favor. I am getting hungry, though. Let's see if there is anything fit to eat in the fridge."

Alexander approved of their staying home. He followed them upstairs of his own free will after supper and settled down in his velvet-lined bed. When Cheryl stooped to fondle his head he emitted a strange sound like a hoarse, magnified purr.

"He's a sweet little doggie," Cheryl said.

"He is not a sweet little doggie. But he seems to like you, for some reason… Don't get me wrong, that wasn't an insult to you, but to Alexander. He hates everybody except Mrs. Mac."

"I expect he misses her."

"It's hard to tell what Alexander thinks or feels. His manners seem to be improving slightly, though. Maybe a good swift kick now and then is what he needs."

"I'm glad you have a dog," Cheryl said. She glanced at the windows, now black with unrelieved night. Moon and stars had little chance of penetrating the cloud of smog and humidity that hung over the city. "You aren't nervous here alone?"

"No."

"I didn't mean you should be. There's nothing to be scared of, nothing at all-"

"There's plenty to be scared of," Karen said bluntly. She began taking clothes out of the wardrobe, for she had promised Cheryl a fashion show of Mrs. MacDougal's designer gowns. "Burglars and muggers and rapists and perverts. But that's true of any big city, and if you spent all your time worrying about what might happen, you'd never accomplish anything."

Cheryl, who had stretched out across the bed, rose up with a shriek. She was not disagreeing with Karen's remarks, but reacting to the Schiaparelli Karen held.

"Oh, Lord, it's the most beautiful thing I ever saw! Is that real mink?"

"Try it on," Karen invited.

"Could I? Oh, no, I shouldn't. It's too delicate-"

She allowed herself to be persuaded. The dress was too big for her, but as she pirouetted and turned in front of the mirror her face shone with delight. "I never in my life wore anything this classy," she breathed. "I never expected I would. How much is it worth?"

"A thousand dollars, maybe more. A Vionnet sold at auction a few years ago for about eight thousand."

Cheryl's eyes grew round as silver dollars. "Jeesus! Here, get it off me."

"Don't be silly. Everything has to go to the cleaner before it's sold; they've all been hanging in an attic for decades. Actually," Karen added, "I'm glad you inspired me to get these things out. According to the books I've been reading, some of them shouldn't be on hangers. See here, on this Poiret, how the weight of the beaded skirt has pulled the threads loose."

"If you can't hang them up, how do you store them?"

"Lying flat, and unfolded. They ought to be wrapped in cotton or acid-free paper, because regular tissue contains chemicals that will eventually damage the fabric. I got out some old muslin sheets of Ruth's-she saves everything!-to put around them, but I just haven't had time."

"Can I help? Please?"

"Twist my arm," Karen said, smiling.

As they folded and wrapped the dresses, Cheryl said hesitantly, "I'm awfully dumb. I never heard of Vionnet or some of those other people."

She stumbled a little over the name. Karen didn't correct her. "I'd never heard of them either, until I started reading. Oh, I knew a few names-don't ask me how, I guess if you like clothes you absorb some information without realizing it. Worth, for instance; he was the first of the great designers. An Englishman, surprisingly enough; we think of haute couture as French. He did open his salon in Paris, and most of his successors were French. Paul Poiret, Callot Soeurs-they really were sisters-and Jeanne Lanvin were among the first. Madeleine Vionnet was another great designer who wasn't really successful until the twenties, but she has been called 'the architect among dressmakers.' Her clothes looked soft and flowing, but they were so cleverly constructed that they emphasized all the wearer's good points and glossed over the defects. This is one of hers; isn't it a lovely blue? Supposedly the color was her own special discovery."

Much as she admired the designer clothes, it was the "whites" that pleased Cheryl most. "They're more my kind of clothes. Simple cottons and crochet, like my grandma used to do. I don't feel as if I was a bird in borrowed feathers."

"They look good on you," Karen said, admiring the sleeveless camisole and full, ruffled petticoat Cheryl was modeling. "I think it's because you have the right kind of figure."

"Big boobs and a fat tush," said Cheryl, making a face.

"The Edwardians wouldn't have put it that way. An hour-glass figure, madam, nicely rounded as a woman should be. Now I look ridiculous in clothes of that period. I'm too tall and I'm practically flat fore and aft, with no visible waistline."

"This is your style." Cheryl held up a shimmering peach nightgown, cut low in front and clinging across the hips. "What do you call it?"

"It's a bias-cut satin nightgown from the thirties. The Jean Harlow look. I might have been able to wear it once…"

"Try it on. Come on, you have to play too."

Karen had to tug the gown down over her hips, but it was something of a boost to her ego that she could get it on at all. "If I don't breathe I'm all right," she said, sucking in her stomach.

"You look absolutely super. That's your style all right, lean and slinky. You know, you may have something with this idea of analyzing women's figures according to historical periods. Maybe we-I mean, you-could start a fashion-guidance salon, like the color-analysis business. You know, winter, spring, fall, summer colors?"

"The world is full of opportunities," Karen said ironically, peeling the nightgown cautiously over her head.

Later, as she sat cross-legged on the bed watching Cheryl rummage through a box of odds and ends, she was still thinking about what she had said, and regretting her lapse into cynicism. Cheryl had not complained or asked for sympathy, and heaven knew she had a right. She had obviously been deeply in love, and to lose a young husband so unexpectedly, to find herself poor and untrained, with a child to support, was a much more difficult situation than Karen had to face.

"Some of these things are awful dirty," Cheryl remarked, still rummaging.

"They aren't as bad as the lot I acquired last night. I dropped a few off at the cleaners today, but I doubt he can do much with them."