"This would be real pretty if it was clean."

"Let's see."

Cheryl tossed it to her-a lavender crepe-de-chine blouse with cap sleeves and a scalloped hem.

"I'll try washing it," Karen said doubtfully. "Some silks wash in cold water and turn out well, but in this case the fabric is so worn it will probably tear. What's that one?"

Cheryl straightened, holding a short jacket with leg-o'-mutton sleeves and a high collar. The fabric was silk taffeta with tiny black-and-white checks, and a complex scrolled pattern of black braid edged the lapels and waistline. From top to bottom the entire garment was cut by parallel slashes. Only the stitching at the shoulder and around the hem held them in place; they fluttered like strips of bunting as Cheryl lifted the garment.

"That's beyond repair," Karen said. "Too bad; it was a pretty thing once. Shattered silk."

"Shattered? It looks like it had been slashed by a knife."

Karen laughed. "Nothing so dramatic. It's a condition you sometimes find in silks from around the turn of the century, when manufacturers used a finishing process to weight the fabric and improve its appearance. The substance contained metallic salts; eventually they rotted the fabric, but only along the warp-hence the parallel tears."

"Can't it be repaired?"

"According to one of my books, 'there is no remedy.'"

"What a sad phrase!"

"It is, rather. True, though. Just toss it into the wastebasket."

"You're going to throw it away?"

"Might as well. 'There is no remedy.'"

"Can I have it?"

"Why… Of course you can. Though what you are going to do with it-"

"The trimming can be salvaged," Cheryl said, examining the jacket with a pensive expression. "The braid and the cute little buttons."

"You're welcome to it. It's of no use to me."

From Cheryl's grateful thanks one would have thought she had had a Chanel gown bestowed upon her. She really does love these things, Karen thought.

"I guess I'd better get going," Cheryl said reluctantly. "Mark said to call him when I was ready to leave…"

She looked doubtfully at Karen, who said calmly, "That's a good idea. It's not easy to get a cab on Saturday night."

But the suggestion had cast a slight air of constraint, and when they went downstairs to wait for Mark, Cheryl was obviously ill at ease. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in going to an auction tomorrow," she said.

"An auction?"

"Yes, up in central Maryland. You mentioned you'd have to start finding other sources of merchandise and I just thought… But I don't suppose you want to."

Karen had not realized until that moment how much she had dreaded the long Sunday alone. "That sounds like fun."

Cheryl's eyes lit up. "Does it really? Would you really like to go? I'm crazy about auctions, but it's not so much fun going alone. I've been buying some things for Mark. You wouldn't believe the junk that boy has, and a man in his position needs classy furniture, don't you think? And I've seen old clothes-what do you call them, vintage?-at auctions, and you said you'd be needing jewelry and other things too- Oh, that's great. I hate Sundays, there's nothing to do except study, and I've already done my next assignment. I'll see if Mark needs the car."

"I have a car. It's my uncle's, actually; he made me get a D.C. license so I could keep the car in running order while he's gone. I've only driven it once since he left, so I guess I ought to take it out again."

"That's good, because then we can stay as long as we want. I know how to get there. I made Mark take me once, but he hates auctions."

"I'll pick you up," Karen said slowly. She had just realized what she had gotten herself into by admitting she had a car.

"You don't have to do that." Cheryl's exuberant grin faded. "I'm being pushy again," she muttered. "I should have waited for you to call me, I'm always the one who… But I thought maybe you didn't like… I don't know what happened with you and Mark, he never said, honest he didn't, but I wondered… So that's why I keep inviting you all the time."

It may have sounded like a non sequitur, but Karen had no difficulty in following Cheryl's train of thought.

She laughed lightly. "I don't know why you should think I want to avoid Mark. We were… we were good friends once, but that was a long time ago. My feelings toward him are… are perfectly amiable. Casual, but-er-amiable."

"Really?"

"Really. What time tomorrow?"

"We ought to leave early so we can be there when it starts. But you don't have to come get me, it will save time if I take a cab here, then we can get right onto the parkway. Suppose I come at eight. Is that too early?"

"No, that's fine."

"There's Mark. I'd better run. I hope they have some old clothes! But even if they don't, it will be good practice for you, bidding and all that. You have to be very sly and tricky."

Karen laughed. Cheryl being tricky was a sight she wanted to see.

She stood watching as Cheryl got into the waiting car. Mark didn't get out, or wave. I got more attention from Horton, Karen thought wryly. But of course Mark's windows were closed because of the air-conditioning. The night air was hazy with mist and close as a steam bath.

He did sound the horn, though, as he drove off- a familiar syncopated signal that sent a stab of memory along Karen's nerves.

A lurid pinkish glow lit the sky. Faintly to her ears came the sounds of revelry by night-isolated shrieks of laughter, the beat of music, the throb of automobile engines. As usual, every legal parking space along the street was filled. People were more cautious about parking illegally these days; the District police didn't fool around, they booted or towed violators instead of issuing meaningless tickets. Shadows passed along the sidewalk; people hurrying to and from the night spots on Wisconsin, residents walking dogs or taking a late-night stroll. Lots of people around. Nothing to be nervous about.

She went back in and followed Alexander through his nightly routine-the final trip to the comfort station in the back yard, and the reward for good behavior, a gourmet dog biscuit. He didn't linger over his outdoor activities, and Karen was glad to close the door against the shrouded night. There were lights outside the back door, but they did not extend far into the darkness.

She handed over the biscuit and then dropped her hand onto the dog's head in a brief caress. "No squirrels out there tonight, Alexander? Let's hit the sack, okay?"

KAREN cut her jogging short next morning, but Cheryl was early and she was still rummaging through her clothes trying to decide what to wear when the doorbell rang. She had no idea what constituted proper attire for a country auction; presumably pearls and mink were not appropriate, which was just as well, because she possessed neither. Except, of course, for the tiny pearls in Dolley's necklace and the mink trim on the Schiaparelli gown.

She ran downstairs to admit Cheryl and apologize for being late. When she explained her dilemma about what to wear, Cheryl looked surprised.

"The coolest thing you've got. It's already pushing eighty degrees. And comfortable shoes."

She was wearing sneakers almost as battered as Karen's, and her legs were bare. A sleeveless white blouse and a dirndl skirt almost old enough to qualify as vintage completed her costume, and as Karen dashed back upstairs to finish dressing she thought how relaxing it was to be with someone who dressed for comfort instead of style- and who wouldn't make malicious remarks about how other people looked.

When she came back down, Cheryl was sitting on the stairs talking to Alexander, who sat with his fuzzy head tilted to one side as if listening.