these days that the nap on the carpets was still raised. Thencut crystal glimmered and every fruitwood and mahoganynsurface shone.n”Lissy, you look wonderful.”nShe could see from their eyes she did not. In a moment ofnschizophrenia she had accidentally mismatched the parts ofnher life. She had on her mannish rusty raisin-coloredncurator’s blouse with the disproportionately fussy skirt shenwore to the last flower show. She didn’t know whether thenflesh on her shanks had fallen away since she began to liventhe life of the mind or whether it was her guilty imagination,nbut her panty hose seemed baggy today, and, lord, her shoes.n”The arrangement, Lissy . . .”n”Oh girls, let’s have sherry first.”nThey had always loved to gossip over a little drink. Therenwas something wonderful about being together and lookingnmarvelous; it gave them a sense of invulnerability, more: thenillusion that they were still really girls.nIn the old days before Alicia was tied up on weekdays, shenused to travel with them to flower shows in cities as far awaynas Boston and New York; they liked to hire a limousine sonthey could, what was it Maud said? So they could let theirnhair down, chattering over a thermos full of Bloody Marysnwithout worrying about who was going to drive, or whethernthey could make the train. They liked to top off the shownwith a three-hour lunch. They always did a little shopping innthe best stores, encouraging each other to spend too much,nand at the end of the afternoon they would command anshaker of martinis for the return trip, laughing and leaningnexaggeratedly as the limousine took gentle curves. Like anhomesick child, Alicia wished for the pretty simplicity of thatnlife.nClarita was particularly beautiful today, in a cocoa suitnwith a peach cashmere; her hair was so exquisitely done thatnit was impossible to tell whether it was only frosted, ornwhether the frosting concealed grey. She had recoverednbeautifully from the divorce, took support from the fact thatnsince the split she had thrived and triumphed, while her exnwas already separated from his popsy, and miserable. Alicianhad heard that there was a new man — somebody she hadnmet on a cruise, but she could not tell from Clarita’snexpression whether this was true, nor could she readnanything in Clarita’s eyes. Her vision of Clarita wasnsurrounded or overshadowed as if by a hologram: she had ancompletely different image of Clarita, as she had been whennshe found out her husband was leaving her.nIt was in the spring that they were studying Japanesenflower arranging at Clarita’s house — using cherry blossomsnflown in at vast expense from God knows where. Likenmost cruel springs it was extraordinarily beautiful; Alicianremembered touching the blossoms, the polished pebbles,nand not so much learning as grasping in an instant thencomplexity of the East. Was it six years ago? Eight? In thosenprelapsarian days things were not so much learned asnknown. She loved them all best as they were that lovelynmorning, five women, gracefully disposed.nHow had they found out about Clarita’s husband? Didnshe tell them, or did they already know?nAll Alicia could remember was sunlight and too muchnsherry, the women dreaming along until the surface frag­n24/CHRONICLESnnnmented, Clarita’s pretty face distorting: “Some women —nbitches—all they care about is that littie thing hangingndown.” Alicia had heard or had not heard something,nsomebody, clang: better get a job. Her mouth filled withntears, not for what had happened to Clarita but for thenloveliness, the possibilities.nLast New Year’s Alfred had carried her off protesting,ntook her away from work right in the middle of thenweek — he was going to keep her at the Plaza for three days;nshe imagined herself barefoot and cherished, wrapped innfilmy gowns. Perhaps he was only being nice or maybe henwas trying to turn her into something else, the silken wife; innbed he was like a desperate boy. She would always remembernthe lines and planes of the city as massed violet shadows,nevery vista an Art Deco illustration of something she’dnnever had.nLeaving the hotel to go back to their lives, Alfred tuckednher into a taxi as if placing something precious in a box;ncatching his expression of loving confusion, she was piercednby its sweetness — unexpected at this point in a long marriednlife. She had opened her mouth to express — what? But henwas already saying. Better hurry, we don’t want to miss ourntrain.nShe was stirred. At the time she had been relieved to getnback to the Manuscripts Library, where everything wasnsafely past. At the office she could push her sweater sleevesnabove her elbows and keep her glasses on all day if shenwanted to, hunched in the posture of concentration, just likenall the other kids. When she had been at work for enoughnyears, she thought, she could simply be this without havingnto think about it. She would be spared the interference ofnthat nasty inner part that always pulled back like a camera,nrelenflessly recording: Alicia in costume at her desk innMedieval Manuscripts, assuming a pose.nIt was recording now. The girls loved the arrangement,nthe most imaginative they would see today. They wantednAlicia to put on her things and come with them to judge thenrest — didn’t she want to change her shoes? Caught up inntheir laughter she would do this; coming down, she wouldnhear and record indelibly the fragmented, telling phrase:n”. . . saw him somewhere . . .” Who had said that in thenflurry as they followed her to the dining table? Clarita? Tonwhich of the others? Not to her. Probably Alicia alreadynknew, knew everything but the woman’s name.nBut her arrangement was the winner today. Laughing,nthey would rush her out of the house, past the implicatednAlfred, who was still leaning on his rake, standing among thenleaves in his Shetland sweater; they would be gone in angolden whirl. She had won this competition, yes, and if onnMonday Alicia found reason to fight with Tad over a pointnof scholarship, it would not be because of what she hadnoverheard, or already knew; no. She was a serious medievalist.nIt was time for her to come into her own.nShe was like the doctor now, crouching over the lights,nthe liver, extracting the last tantalizingly delicious bits; shenhad developed a taste. The arrangement was a success; thenmonograph she was working on with Tad was going tonbecome her book, even if it necessitated a major rupturenwith him — after all he was only a mediocre dabbler whilenshe was going to be a major scholar, just cutting her teeth onnthis first publishable piece. <^n