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made no sound. And as it was a night of moon radiance and the light streamed in the window behind him and the windows at either end of the hall, it was easy for Mauser to see at once that the source of the rumbling snores was no wornout cur, but a woman. A most extraordinary woman—the laundress who’d revived him. Her face caught the light as though it were poured of tarnished silver. Her face was sculpted of the fabulous dark side of a mirror. Or deep water. Or time, as I’ve said. Her face gave back an idealized reflection and Mauser was caught in it. That strange beauty emitting snorts and whistles. Oblivious. He watched her curiously for a while, and then he suddenly smiled. He shut the door. Crawled back between the covers. She never knew, but here it was. Like a child reaching into the lake and pulling out a fish, like a fish flipping out of the fry pan into a stream that rushes to the lake, like a dog biting randomly and hauling from the air a rump steak, she got her prize. She had caught him in her sleep.

FOUR
Karezza
    Polly Elizabeth
    A S SOON AS Fleur appeared in the doorway, ready for my inspection, I regretted my impulse to copy for her that uniform from a certain exclusive hotel in the South of France. The black was never meant to set off so tight a waist, nor the peplum to emphasize those narrow-swiveling sly hips. The bodice with its inset of jet ruche and wide, starched white collar—a terrible mistake. Who could have expected it to frame such an elegant throat? And her eagle’s grace of collar-bone—perfectly! The three-quarters sleeves and tight cuffs gave distinction to her arms. I turned away without a word. I won’t mention my choice of the tinted stockings and the shoes—how I regretted the clever, shiny heels! Her feet were too long for fashion, I told myself, walking from the room, and her hands were rough with work. I tried to find comfort in these shortcomings. But what man rejects a woman on the basis of small defects in her hands and feet?
    The rains were heavy and the snows worse. Mold grew in the corners of my brain. Grayish days do that to me, when I’m shut in and contemplate my small surround. I’ve the wit to do more than run this house for my sister, but my face is bleak and martial. I’ve never married. And here’s the worst. I’ve a soft heart for children, as well as all things small and helpless, and I sometimes weep into my clenched fists for fury that my sister has provided me no nephew or niece. One day I decided, in spite of opposition from all quarters, to obtain a small lady’s lapdog—a Pomeranian. A black clever-eyed bit of fluff with sharp teeth and a bitter yap. I imagined myself in some way defined by my relation to another creature. The dog would look elegant when I rode in motorcars, and fit my wardrobe perfectly as I tended to favor contrasting checks and black-and-white plaids. I would be known for my black Pomeranian and there would be a dog, at least, to sleep with me in my bed.
    The breeder brought round the complete litter and I chose one at last—it took me just an hour—I picked him for his pleading eyes. Who else, after all, needed me enough to beg?
     
    T HOUGH I AM fond of my sister and do not begrudge her the lopsided distribution of comely attributes, I am nevertheless aware of her limitations. Placide was considered scatterbrained, and our tutor had often chastised her, but I’ve had occasion to wonder whether indeed she was created with a brain at all. In the aftermath of brother-in-law’s episode, life resumed a routine serenity, outwardly at least. But I had seen what I had seen. I tried to tell Placide.
    “Sister,” I addressed her straight out, one morning as I posed for her in pale north light, “your husband has eyes for the laundress.”
    “She’s dark as a Nubian. More to the left. Turn your head. There. Your beard is rippling up on one side and your collar shows.”
    I smoothed the piece of lamb’s wool we’d taped to my