Alexander, smelling the ghosts of the sausages, was cruising the room. He tossed his head. One large brown, evil eye emerged from the brush. It focused squarely on Karen. She shuddered.

The rain had almost stopped by the time she started along Wisconsin Avenue on her way to work, but the steep slope of the sidewalk was slick with greasy water, and a fine drizzle dampened the shoulders of her raincoat. In the gray summer heat the street looked like any grubby business district instead of the fashionable shopping area it actually was. Traffic snarled the street, exhaust fumes blending with the fog to form a dirty substance that looked, and was, inimical to human health. Throwaway plastic containers and paper napkins from the fast-food stores littered the sidewalk. At least the bad weather had driven the street vendors and the vacant-faced, stumbling alcoholics indoors. Ten years ago she had loved Georgetown, had been stimulated and excited by its eclectic liveliness- bars and fortunetellers rubbing shoulders with chic boutiques, vendors selling cheap gold chains outside a fashionable jewelry store, elegant antique shops sandwiched between People's Drugs and McDonald's. It must be another sign of premature aging that made her find the area tawdry and unappealing.

Julie's shop was not on Wisconsin, but on one of the side streets. Climbing vines rooted in antique iron buckets framed the doorway, and the single window held an eye-catching arrangement of odds and ends, their very incongruity demanding the attention of the passerby. The name of the establishment was lettered in gold: old things. No capital letters, just the two simple words. Smart of Julie. Not only was the name chichi clever, but it made no claim. "Antiques" implied, at least, that the dealer knew what the word meant and was willing to stand behind its implication.

Karen was sardonically amused to see that Julie had a new window arrangement. A rusty well pump stood next to a dainty Louis Quatorze-type sofa covered in delicate brocade. Across the sofa had been flung, with seeming carelessness, the best of Julie's few antique gowns, an Edwardian tea dress of pale-blue muslin. The ensemble was completed by a pair of heavy work boots.

Karen had felt a certain letdown after leaving Mrs. MacDougal. The old lady was like a strong wind; one had to brace oneself to stand upright against it, and when the wind stopped blowing, the victim had a tendency to sag. But the sight of Julie's window stiffened Karen's drooping spine. The Edwardian dress was a promise to customers of things to come-a promise Julie had no right to make.

The bells over the door chimed as Karen entered the shop. Julie was on the phone. Though she noted Karen's entrance immediately, she talked with such machine-gun rapidity she finished the sentence she had begun before she was able to stop herself.

"…just your size, Friday at the latest." After a glance at Karen, her half of the conversation turned monosyllabic. "Yes. Right. Yes. Okay. By."

"Hello," said Karen.

"Hi. Don't just stand there, you're dripping all over my antique Kerman."

Karen opened the door at the back of the shop and went into the office. Rob, the only other employee, was seated at the desk, his yellow curls bent over a pile of invoices. "Hi there, sweetie," he crooned, glancing up. "Want some coffee? Fresh brewed by my own white hands."

"No, thanks."

"But, sweetie, you're drenched, poor baby. Here, let me take your coat."

A gold earring glinted as he rose to his full height- well over six feet-and reached for Karen's coat. He was a pretty thing, with delicate, epicene features, and many of the older women customers assumed he was gay. They were very sweet to him, and Rob cooed and gurgled and giggled at them like one of the girls. The customers could not have been more wrong. Rob's effect on younger women was devastating and was callously exploited.

Despite his air of camaraderie, Karen suspected Rob didn't like her much. He had made a halfhearted pass at her shortly after she began working, and she had complained to Julie. Julie had responded with contemptuous hilarity and had promised to speak to Rob, who had sulked for several days. Dumb, dumb, Karen thought disgustedly. I should have handled it myself, not made a big deal of it. That was one of her problems-she had gotten out of the habit of acting independently, without consulting someone else first.

And to make matters worse, she had realized too late that Rob's motive had been kindness rather than lust. She wasn't his type. He liked his women young, or rich, or both.

Like Jack.

Karen muttered under her breath and Rob turned his head. "What did you say, ducks?"

"Nothing. Thanks, Rob."

She went back into the shop and surveyed the cluttered interior of the small room with a newly critical eye. Julie had a style of her own. The shop was absolutely crammed with objects; one had to sidle sideways through the clutter. Yet the clutter was rather charming, suggesting an old-fashioned general store where customers willing to burrow through stacks of Levi's and yard goods might discover treasures the owner had forgotten and under-priced.

Karen admired the effect, but she knew she could not imitate Julie. She would have to develop her own individual style. A picture formed in her mind-a big, high-ceilinged room with crown moldings and chair rails, the white walls warmed by sunlight from tall windows; ornate, gold-framed mirrors, green plants in Victorian cachepots; some of the more striking garments, like the Chinese ceremonial skirt of Mrs. Mac's, hanging like banners against the walls-

"What?" she said, starting.

"I said you look like Dracula. Didn't you sleep?"

"I slept very well, thank you-until six-thirty, when the damned telephone woke me up."

"Well, for God's sake put on some make-up and try to look pleasant. A customer would take one look at you and run screaming into the street. That skirt is too tight. Why didn't you wear the blue silk? Who called at that ungodly hour?"

"Mrs. MacDougal." Karen glanced into a nearby mirror. It was eighteenth-century Chippendale, with a curved frame and a gilt eagle on top. The wavy, time-worn glass made her face look bloodless and distorted. She fished in her purse for her lipstick.

"Mrs. MacDougal," Julie repeated.

"Uh-huh."

"How is she?"

"Fine." Karen returned the lipstick to her purse. "I had breakfast with her."

"I don't suppose you talked to your aunt."

"Yes, I did. She called last night."

"She said you couldn't wear the dress?"

"What… Oh, that damned blue silk. You have the most incredibly one-track mind, Julie. She said I could have anything I wanted and do anything I wanted with it."

"Marvelous." Julie's eyes glistened. "I'll come over this evening and we'll go through the clothes. You're a friend, so I'll give you a square deal. Half the retail price.

I'm really cheating myself, because the usual markup is three hundred percent-"

"Two hundred," Karen said.

"Not in Georgetown. Do you know what my overhead is?"

"Yes, I do know. You told me at least twice a day every day last week. You can have a few of the clothes to sell on consignment for me. I believe twenty percent is the usual charge. The rest I'll keep. I'm going to start my own business in the fall."

"Son of a bitch!" screamed Julie.

The argument raged for a good ten minutes. Rob came out to see what the ruckus was about and lingered, his eyes moving from one combatant to the other as he emitted impartial cries of encouragement. "That was a good one, Karen. Right on, Julie darling, you tell her."

After accusing Karen of gross ingratitude and predicting instant bankruptcy for her proposed business, Julie suddenly gave in.

"Oh, well," she said coolly. "It was worth a try. You never had much gumption, and I figured you were so down in the dumps you wouldn't have the guts to strike out on your own."