For an hour or more she had stared at the ceiling, then at her reflection, then out of the window, then at her reflection again. Eyes, nose, mouth. Neck, arms, breasts. Hands. Belly, sex, thighs. Knees, feet, toes. Trouble. But now the clock and her troublesome body were both telling her it was almost time to go down to dinner. Her dress was laid out upon the bed; her combs and ribbons were on the dresser. Everything was in waiting. Julia rang for the maid. When she was dressed and the maid dismissed, Julia pinched some color into her cheeks. The clock ticked loudly but slowly. If she went down now she would be a mite early. If she was early, she would have to watch his face as he entered. If late, she would have to watch his face as she entered. These seemed like completely different possibilities, and yet no matter which she chose, she would still have to see Blackdown over dinner, she would have to talk to him, she would have to look at him and pretend that nothing had ever happened.
