mirror, she saw the line of light run down the silk from the curve of her breast, the flush of red mounting to her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tugged the softly rounded neckline a little higher on her shoulders. She hadn't chosen this dress to be... hadn't... had. "Didn't," she said defiantly. "Did not." She reached for the closet door to pick something thicker, less clinging, less...
Too late. She heard him coming up the stairs, the firm knock on the door. Put the best face on it possible.
He made it no easier for her. He stood back, obviously admiring her, his eyes lighting up. "You look wonderful, a water nymph—what is it? A naiad. The color suits you. It makes you glow as though you had candles lit inside." He smiled, not knowing that the emotion he had roused in her was a quiet anger, at him, at herself. "I've brought your box back."
Her mood of acceptance was waning, but he gave her no time to fret, placing the box on the table and opening it as he talked. "One Escher print," he said, busy unpacking. "One print of a Delvaux painting. One Eskimo carving, one Bantu carving, one bit of oriental charmery. One medicine pouch."
He set them out for her as she stared.
The Escher print was of a fish rising to the top of still water where leaves rested on the ripples and bare trees laid their shattered reflections. The Delvaux painting was of two young women walking in a well-lit street, clothed in high-necked white dresses, lamps all about, a nearby house streaming with light from windows and doors. The Eskimo carving was of a bird, a confluence of curving lines which said nest, rest, peace.
The ebony carving was of a happy frog, and the oriental bit was of two mice chewing their way through a nut. He laid a medicine pouch beside the pot of crocuses, a bit of fluffy ermine skin, eagle feathers tied to it with turquoise beads and bits of coral. "American Indian," he said. "How does this collection of things suit you?"
She considered them. Each of them separately was pleasant, unremarkable. Together—together they seemed to reach toward her with welcoming arms. "Safe," she offered at last.
"Everything seems very natural and contented."
"I like the young women in the Delvaux painting." He made a vast, smoothing gesture, as though wiping away the darkness.
"Busy at lighting up their world. Light is a very powerful symbol in our religion, of course." He stood back from the picture and admired it. "Ah! I meant to hang them for you, but it will have to be when we return. Our reservation is for eight o'clock, and if we make a careful hurry, we will get there on time. The maitre d' to whom I spoke was most forthright.
We must be on time or our table will be given away to those less foresighted but more prompt. Nothing would sway him, not even appeals to justice and the American Way. So. Your wrap? Lovely. Your purse? That is all you are carrying? Well, the young are the only ones who may travel so unencumbered.
We go."
She had no opportunity to tell him he need not hang the pictures, no opportunity to change her dress, no time to remember she had wanted to change it. She was swept down the stairs—past Mrs. Winesap in the entryway, pretending to be much involved with her mailbox—and into the car before she could think of anything, already laughing somewhat helplessly at his nonsense.
"Most cars available for rent," he announced, shutting her door, "are too large to be amusing or too small to be safe. I will not, however, join nine-tenths of your countrymen in the daily game they play with their lives. To meet my sense of prudence, you are required to ride in some ostentatious luxury, though I know you would prefer simplicity, being the kind of person you obviously are."
She sank back into the seat, surrounded by velvet surfaces and leather smell. "I didn't know one could rent cars like this."
"One cannot," he said with some satisfaction. "However, one can appear to be a potential buyer, with unimpeachable
Too late. She heard him coming up the stairs, the firm knock on the door. Put the best face on it possible.
He made it no easier for her. He stood back, obviously admiring her, his eyes lighting up. "You look wonderful, a water nymph—what is it? A naiad. The color suits you. It makes you glow as though you had candles lit inside." He smiled, not knowing that the emotion he had roused in her was a quiet anger, at him, at herself. "I've brought your box back."
Her mood of acceptance was waning, but he gave her no time to fret, placing the box on the table and opening it as he talked. "One Escher print," he said, busy unpacking. "One print of a Delvaux painting. One Eskimo carving, one Bantu carving, one bit of oriental charmery. One medicine pouch."
He set them out for her as she stared.
The Escher print was of a fish rising to the top of still water where leaves rested on the ripples and bare trees laid their shattered reflections. The Delvaux painting was of two young women walking in a well-lit street, clothed in high-necked white dresses, lamps all about, a nearby house streaming with light from windows and doors. The Eskimo carving was of a bird, a confluence of curving lines which said nest, rest, peace.
The ebony carving was of a happy frog, and the oriental bit was of two mice chewing their way through a nut. He laid a medicine pouch beside the pot of crocuses, a bit of fluffy ermine skin, eagle feathers tied to it with turquoise beads and bits of coral. "American Indian," he said. "How does this collection of things suit you?"
She considered them. Each of them separately was pleasant, unremarkable. Together—together they seemed to reach toward her with welcoming arms. "Safe," she offered at last.
"Everything seems very natural and contented."
"I like the young women in the Delvaux painting." He made a vast, smoothing gesture, as though wiping away the darkness.
"Busy at lighting up their world. Light is a very powerful symbol in our religion, of course." He stood back from the picture and admired it. "Ah! I meant to hang them for you, but it will have to be when we return. Our reservation is for eight o'clock, and if we make a careful hurry, we will get there on time. The maitre d' to whom I spoke was most forthright.
We must be on time or our table will be given away to those less foresighted but more prompt. Nothing would sway him, not even appeals to justice and the American Way. So. Your wrap? Lovely. Your purse? That is all you are carrying? Well, the young are the only ones who may travel so unencumbered.
We go."
She had no opportunity to tell him he need not hang the pictures, no opportunity to change her dress, no time to remember she had wanted to change it. She was swept down the stairs—past Mrs. Winesap in the entryway, pretending to be much involved with her mailbox—and into the car before she could think of anything, already laughing somewhat helplessly at his nonsense.
"Most cars available for rent," he announced, shutting her door, "are too large to be amusing or too small to be safe. I will not, however, join nine-tenths of your countrymen in the daily game they play with their lives. To meet my sense of prudence, you are required to ride in some ostentatious luxury, though I know you would prefer simplicity, being the kind of person you obviously are."
She sank back into the seat, surrounded by velvet surfaces and leather smell. "I didn't know one could rent cars like this."
"One cannot," he said with some satisfaction. "However, one can appear to be a potential buyer, with unimpeachable
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