"It makes me look like the old lady," Karen grumbled, as she slipped the dress on. "Where would I wear silk chiffon?"

"To work. Vintage adds a nice touch. Actually, it's a little big for you. How amazing."

Karen bit her lip. There was no sense in sparring with Julie; she was as subtle as an elephant, and her hide was as thick. "I could fix it," she said. "Take the skirt off, put in a few tucks and pleats…"

"I didn't know you could sew. That could be useful," Julie added thoughtfully.

Karen didn't ask her to elucidate. "I used to make all my own clothes. Academic salaries aren't that high, and Jack didn't want me to work, so…"

So she went to faculty dinners and receptions in homemade clothes while Jack ran up big bills at the best men's shops in the city. She didn't mind. Jack was such a good-looking man, and of course men couldn't make their own clothes. Her skill improved with practice, and she was naively proud of her work-until the night of the President's reception. It was the first formal gathering they had attended after Jack accepted the job in Dubuque. He was wearing the dinner jacket he had got at Brooks Brothers before they left Washington. She had slaved over her dress-raw silk, on sale for only eight dollars a yard… Jack said it looked homemade. Very nice, my dear, but why didn't you buy something a little more sophisticated?

Suddenly Karen realized she was shaking and dry-mouthed with anger. Strange. She hadn't been angry at the time, only embarrassed.

The memory came and went so quickly that Julie, never the most sensitive of women, was unaware of her distraction. Julie had opened a box filled with time-yellowed lingerie and was emitting little moans of delight. "Victorian and Edwardian. Look at the handmade lace, the embroidery…I could get a hundred and fifty for this petticoat!"

It was then that the idea was born, sparked by Julie's greed and founded in long-suppressed resentment. Why you? Karen thought. Why not me?

THE hamburgers Julie had brought were reduced to grease and sogginess by the time they sat down to supper. Karen nibbled on salad; Julie absently devoured the disgusting sandwich, too intent on her own thoughts to notice what she was eating. Karen knew she was planning a new assault, but had not yet determined the right strategy. They parted with mutually insincere expressions of affection. Karen locked up, turned off the lights, and dragged her weary body up to bed.

Of course it wouldn't have occurred to Julie to help clean up the mess, Karen thought crossly. Her bedroom was as littered as it had been during her college days. She couldn't even get into bed; it was piled high with "whites," as Julie called them-petticoats frothy with lace, nightgowns trimmed with crochet and tatting, camisoles and corset covers and funny, voluminous bloomers. Karen was tempted to push the whole lot onto the floor-they all needed washing anyway-but habit prevailed over exhaustion, and she began folding the garments and returning them to the cartons from which Julie had taken them. They were in poorer condition than the carefully packed dresses, but Julie had assured her the dust and dirt would wash out.

When she came upon the petticoat Julie had priced with such extravagance, she examined it curiously. It was beautifully made; eight inches of narrow tucks circled the lower part of the skirt, and the wide double flounces were trimmed with yards of knitted lace, fine as cobwebs. Karen held it against her and looked in the mirror. Crumpled and stained as it was, it conjured up images of romantic femininity, like the scent of ghostly, faded perfume; as she turned from side to side, the wide flounce swung out in a coquettish flare.

The lace had pulled away from the fabric in several places and there was one rent in its web. She could fix that. Julie had insisted the stains would bleach out. Dark brownish stains, like dried blood… Surely no one would pack a bloodstained garment, though. The stains must be those of rust.

A hundred and fifty dollars?

Karen was almost ready for bed when the telephone rang. She wondered irritably who could be calling so late, and then realized it wasn't quite ten o'clock. She was tempted not to answer. If the caller was Julie, primed with new excuses for plundering Ruth…

However, the caller was not Julie. Ruth's soft voice was blurred by background noises of laughter and conversation. She and Pat were spending the night with friends in New York before flying out the following morning.

"You weren't asleep, were you?" Ruth asked.

"Good heavens, no." Karen laughed lightly. "It's only ten o'clock."

"I forgot to ask you to please call the repairman to come look at the dryer. You'll find his number in the file."

"What's wrong with the dryer? It was working fine yesterday."

"Sometimes it makes a funny noise when it spins."

"I didn't hear any funny noise."

"It's intermittent," Ruth said.

Karen couldn't help smiling. There was nothing wrong with the dryer; that was only Ruth's excuse for calling. Now she could ask the questions she really wanted to ask. Did you eat something? Are you nervous alone? Are you sad, afraid, lonely?

"Okay," she said. "Don't worry, I'll look after things."

"And yourself."

"And myself."

"I hope you had a nice quiet day."

"Julie came for supper."

"Good."

"Not so good," Karen said perversely. "She's had her eye on your attic for a long time. She barely waited till you were out of the house before she pounced."

"Oh, Karen, I'm sure she came because she's so fond of you-"

"Ruth, darling, you needn't stroke my ego. Julie is as fond of me as she is of anyone, but she is primarily a merchant. She drooled over those chairs of Pat's."

"Well, she can't have them. Honestly," Ruth said indignantly. "Of all the nerve, making use of your friendship to pry around in my house-"

The sentence ended in a gasp and a burst of smothered laughter, and Ruth's voice was replaced by that of her husband. Karen moved the receiver a few inches from her ear.

"What did you say to infuriate my wife?" Pat demanded. "You know I can't allow her to be upset, she's a holy terror when she's angry."

Karen heard Ruth's voice in the background. "Give me that phone, Patrick MacDougal!"

"Only if you let me listen in."

Sounds of a scuffle ensued; Karen waited resignedly until the MacDougals had arrived at a consensus. Then Ruth said somewhat breathlessly, "Don't let that pushy female have a thing!"

"I will defend your property with my last drop of blood," Karen assured her. "You don't mind if I wear some of the clothes, do you?"

"Clothes? What clothes?"

"There are piles of them. Some of yours, some that must have belonged to Cousin Hattie, and even older things. Vintage clothing is in style, and I thought-"

"Oh, those old things. I was going to give them to Goodwill, but I never got around to it."

Pat interrupted with a comment Karen didn't catch; it was obviously a rude remark about Ruth's refusal to throw anything away. Suspecting that another prolonged bout of affectionate horseplay was about to take place, Karen said loudly, "Would you give them to me?"

That stopped the argument. After a blank silence, Ruth said, "Darling girl, you can have anything in the house. It will all be yours and Sara's one day-"

"But not for a helluva long time," said Pat.

"Stop it, Pat. Darling, you'd be doing me a favor if you cleaned that whole lot out. Take what you can use and call Salvation Army or someone to pick up the rest. And while they are at it, they can clean out Pat's study. Just tell them to take everything-"

"If one scrap of paper is missing," Pat shouted, "I'll put the grandfather of all curses on ye!"

"Are you sure you meant to throw them away?" Karen persisted.