word, she would know that all this was foreordained, beyond help and hope. With a quick movement she pushed her glass of tea off the table; it cascaded onto George's ankle. He paused in surprise.
"I'm so sorry. How careless of me, your nice white socks, look out, that little piece of ice is going down inside your shoe."
She felt that the guest's eyes were upon her. He must have seen her do it. "Is that why they call it a tumbler?" he said.
"Never mind," said George cheerfully. "It feels fine. I wish it was down my neck."
For a moment transparent Time swung in a warm, dull, uncertain equilibrium. Phyllis could see Lizzie jolt heavily down the kitchen steps and bend over the garbage can. The grinding clang of the lid came like a threatening clap of cymbals. How glorious it would be if she and Lizzie, each with a garbage can and lid, could suddenly break into a ritual dance on the lawn, posturing under the maddening sunlight, clashing away their fury in a supreme dervish protest. How surprised George and Mr. Martin would be. She and Lizzie making frantic and mocking gestures, sweating the comedy out of their veins, breaking through the dull mask of polite behaviour into the great rhythms and
