Nine Hundred Tuesdays

Here is the last thing, and it is an ordinary Tuesday in March, four years on.

She is thirty-four. She took silk applications seriously for the first time last autumn and Marguerite has told her to wait two more years and she has decided, after a certain amount of argument, to take the advice. She is in front of Ferris next month, who is seventy-seven and refuses to retire and who yawned at her in February in a way she now regards as a compliment.