Evidence of dreams, dreams that were pleasurable and real but whose exciting freedom was forbidden her, hung in her mind as dust hangs in the air after a car has passed on a country road. This sensation settled, and she was awake. The meagre trees patterned silhouettes; her skin goose-pimpled under the shadows. Her tennis frock was creased, legs embossed by insect and weed, brown bits cling. She shivered the regret of waking. Or dozing.

When she rose her head was in full sunlight and reflected in the window, flattered by the evening gold. She saw herself smile the smile that strangers loved. Few noticed that the eyes rarely complemented the happy composition of cheeks, lips and teeth. In the eyes they saw suspicion, fear, sadness, neurosis. But at this moment her eyes were no more than the shadows of her brows. She liked this imperfect mirror. It would be fabulous, as she wished it to be. She held her hope in a vice grip to give it the stillness of fact. And looked at her watch. Ten to five.