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Who are you kidding? Frowning, she determined not to loose herself in self-consciousness. She regarded her image calmly, taking in her still-wet hair, slightly flushed face with its narrow chin and small mouth, and the voluptuousness of her plain white terrycloth bathroom. She let her eyes shift to the reflection of Arthur behind her. Wrapped in his meditation, head slightly bowed, his heavy-lidded eyes seemed to regard her bare feet, or perhaps everything was all emptiness for him now. He's not even giving me an audience, Jane thought wryly. Arthur sat statue-like on his firm round pillow. His legs were simply crossed; she could see his hairy calves, his bare feet. Looking poised and relaxed on his (what do they call it, zafu? his cushion thing), Arthur had cupped his left hand in his right, then placed both in his lap. The cotton cloth he had used for yoga covered his legs to just below the knees, and up his lower waist to below his belly button. The earth-colored shawl covered his. It was a two-story, rambling house of probably 8,000 square feet. In true traditional Colonial Revival style, it had a veranda wrapping around the front, east, and west sides. Mr. Emerly’s decorator had made certain that each side veranda was elegantly furnished and graciously appointed with hanging ferns as well as potted gardenias which would fill the house in the spring and summer with their exotic perfume. As I parked in front of the house, I noticed the front was as typical as others in the area, furnished with rocking chairs and little side tables to pass away sultry summer nights. The east side was set up with a table and two chairs suitable for dining or sharing morning coffee … thinking of coffee, did I smell a freshly brewing pot drifting out the windows? On the west side, a group of chaise lounges and a wicker settee surrounded a low cocktail table. It appeared to me that Mr. Emerly had certainly lavished a lot of money on these trappings for entertainment when he had no.
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