Mrs. Winstanley was a woman of a certain age with an allure that was perhaps two parts elegance.  As it used to be said that a queen is always beautiful, so Mrs. Winstanley's beauty seemed borrowed from her background.  Yet she was beautiful.
 The elevator door opened and she walked out onto the upper floor of a designer department store.  It was early and there were no other customers.  The walls were hung with whips and pictures of horses.  She browsed through the scarf section and paused at a display on the counter.
 The clerk behind it said, "Good morning, Mrs. Winstanley."
 She rotated the display carousel.
 "Good morning, Mrs. Winstanley," he said.
 She drew a scarf partway out and let it trail over her finger.  "What's this?"
 "Silk.  That's a very nice piece.  Would you like to see it?"
 He freed it from its place on the rack and she pushed her coat back on her shoulders and lifted her hair while he passed it around her neck.  He arranged it before her without tying it.
 "That goes very nicely with your coloring."
 "It makes my throat look wrinkled."
 "You have good flesh, Mrs. Winstanley.  You have fine flesh."
 "I don't want this."
 He made a knot in the scarf, pulled it tight on her and moved it to one side.  "Your neck is so long.  It's a shame not to set it off."
 "Show me something else."
 He whirled the display and found another scarf, untied the one on her neck and lay it softly aside as if folding it into a box, and passed the second scarf around behind her, touching her through it and tugging it snug.
 "You know, that's what the word gorgeous means, Mrs. Winstanley.  It's French for throat."
 She turned her neck within the scarf, a discreet gesture of discomfort, but he held it.
 "The throat is so vulnerable," he said.  He tightened the knot, studying her skin.  "To age.  To violence."
 "You're being rude."
 "It could be a bridle, Mrs. Winstanley.  I could hold it while I was riding you.  I could tighten you at the moment, Mrs. Winstanley.  I could turn you into a grip of pleasure."
 "I can have you fired for this."
 He smiled at her.  "Isn't it exciting?"
 "Please."
 He released her and turned a mirror towards her.  "What do you think?"
 She moved slightly into range of the mirror and, looking at herself, touched her throat.
 "Which one do you want?" he said.
 "I don't know, I--"
 " You never know, Mrs. Winstanley.  You can never make up your mind about anything."
 "I'll take this one."
 "No, you won't.  You'll send it back.  Are you still on your pills?"
 "My pills?"
 "Your pills, Mrs. Winstanley.  Don't you remember your pills?  You're being treated for melancholia."
 "Yes.  No.  I don't take pills.  It's not pills.  I don't--know what it is."
 "It's something you need."
 "Something I read?"
 "Something you need, dear.  You can't seem to get organized.  Isn't it something you need?"
 "Do you have this in yellow?"
 He smiled.
 "Don't humiliate me," she said, but he went on staring.  "I hate this store.  This decor.  So pretentious.  I should have stayed home."
 "You know you love to come shopping, Mrs. Winstanley.  The carpets, the leather chairs, the sense of possibility.  You know they excite you.  And why shouldn't they?"  He leaned forward on folded arms.  "You can have anything you see."
 "I don't want anything I see!  It's vulgar.  So many of these things are vulgar.  Too much of anything is vulgar.  This scarf is vulgar.  What you're saying to me is vulgar.  Stop it!"
 She looked around nervously.
 "You need a strong hand, Mrs. Winstanley."  He spoke quietly.  "You need authority in your life.  You need someone to dominate you."
 "Everyone needs that."
 "No, Mrs. Winstanley.  I don't need that.  You need it.  You need someone to"--he leaned toward her--"take you in hand.  Someone to put welts on your flesh."
 "Stop this!"
 "I could do things to you you'd never forget.  You may forget everything else, Mrs. Winstanley, but you won't forget that."
 "Please, I can't--Don't talk like that."
 "Why not, Mrs. Winstanley."  He laughed softly.  "Mrs. Winstanley.  How can you be Mrs. Winstanley?  You're just a little girl!  How did all this happen to you?  Soon you'll be old."
 "You're imposing on me."
 "What do you want?  Do you want to hear that you're beautiful?  What do you want?  Do you know what you want?"
 "Why are you doing this?"  She was close to tears.
 "No no no no," he soothed, touching her.  "No no no no.  It's all right.  This scarf is so diaphonous.  See?  I'll save it for you.  The store is yours.  Go and look at everything.  Be happy.  I'll keep the scarf for you."
 "Thank you."
 "I'm always happy to help you, Mrs. Winstanley."
 "Thank you.  I'll just--"  She backed away.
 "Go ahead.  We're here to serve you."
 She walked through a tunnel saying to herself, "And then she went to the--And then she went to the--And then she walked along until she came to the--"
 The daylight brightened and she was surrounded by beachwear.
 A woman in high heels came to meet her.  "Hello, Mrs. Winstanley."
 "Can you help me?"
 "If I can."
 "I need--"  She looked around.  "I'm not sure."
 "Are you going away?"
 "I may."
 "Do you need a bathing suit?"
 "I don't know."
 "An extra bathing suit is always nice.  Let me see your size."
 She helped Mrs. Winstanley off with her coat, looked at her for a moment and carried her coat and purse away.  Mrs. Winstanley folded her arms as if she was naked and looked at some things on a rack.
 The clerk came back holding a one-piece bathing suit.  "Over here," she said, and led her to a change room.  She held the curtain aside and gave her the bathing suit.
 Mrs. Winstanley went inside and made sure the curtain was closed before she undressed.  She put on the bathing suit and posed before the mirror.
 The clerk shot the curtain aside and looked at her.  "It's your size," she said.
 Mrs. Winstanley turned to see herself.
 "There's a mirror out here," said the clerk, stepping back.
 Mrs. Winstanley peered out.  "Is anyone here?"
 "No."
 She went out barefoot and stood before the three-panelled mirror.  The clerk turned her to show her how she looked from behind while Mrs. Winstanley tugged the bodice up.
 "I'm showing," she said.
 "You have beautiful breasts."
 "My throat--"
 "You have a swan's neck."
 The clerk stood at Mrs. Winstanley's shoulder and together they looked at her in the mirror.
 "The wrinkles--"
 The clerk's hands came up as if to shape Mrs. Winstanley's neck without touching it, as if to smooth away the wrinkles, but then they took her head and turned it a little this way, a little that, posing it while they watched the neck.
 "No."
 Mrs. Winstanley tried it on her own.  "They look better with a bathing suit," she admitted.
 "It's wonderful on you."
 "My hips are too big."  She turned slightly to see them.
 The clerk helped her find the angle, guiding her by the shoulders, and lowered her hands as if to display her, almost touching her bare hips.  She raised them to Mrs. Winstanley's waist, smoothing the material against it, showing her how it flattered her.
 "If I were your husband I wouldn't let you have a minute's peace," she whispered.  In the mirror she stepped back to see Mrs. Winstanley at close range.  "Look at your behind."
 There was a moment of discomfort.
 Mrs. Winstanley folded her arms.  "My husband doesn't--"  She shook her head.
 "You've been married too long."
 "Oh, no, I don't mean--"
 "You mean he--"
 "No, I mean--there's nothing wrong between us."
 "But there is room in your life.  For--"
 "I just--I don't like the way you--assume."
 In the mirror the clerk smiled at Mrs. Winstanley's back.  "Do you ever imagine sex with your own husband?"
 "Don't do this."
 "What do you think about while you're--"
 "Please."
 "When he's just slowly doing it to you.  What do you think about?"
 "Don't you see I depend on you?"
 "I can have you if I want you."
 "I need you to protect me."
 "You're so tender.  I'll be so sweet with you.  When I touch myself I think about you."
 "I don't want to hear this."
 "Your nipples are showing through the material, Mrs. Winstanley."
 "I'm afraid."
 "Did you make the suit wet?  It doesn't matter.  You'll be taking it.  It looks so marvellous on you.  Go in there and take it off and I'll ring it in for you."
 With her eyes averted Mrs. Winstanley went into the change room and drew the curtain.  She sat down trembling.
 The clerk snapped the curtain aside.  "Hurry up, Mrs. Winstanley.  Take the bathing suit off."
 Mrs. Winstanley looked up at her.
 "Take it off so I can see you."
 Mrs. Winstanley stood and pulled down the bathing suit.  She stepped out of it and gave it to the clerk, who held it rumpled in her hands and looked at it, and at Mrs. Winstanley.  Mrs. Winstanley lowered her eyes.
 "Get dressed."
 The clerk stood and watched while Mrs. Winstanley put her clothes on and then led her to a cash register where she punched in the sale.  She lay the bathing suit on the counter and smoothed it flat with her hands, folded it and put it in a bag with Mrs. Winstanley's charge slip.  Mrs. Winstanley took her coat and purse from the counter and hugged them to herself.
 The clerk folded down the top of the bag and handed it to her.  "Thank you, Mrs. Winstanley."
 "Thank you."
 She walked away quickly, the lingerie and the spring coats blurring past.  "And then she went--And then she went--And then she went looking for the--"
 The shoes were on shelves against the wall.  She stopped before a pair with flat heels.
 "Can I help you?" said the clerk, a man somewhat younger than she.
 "I'm just looking."
 "Would you like to try them on?"
 She stared at the shoes.
 "Let me see if I have them in your size."
 She sat in a chair, put her things on the one next to her, and waited.
 He came back with the box already open and propped in the top like a display.  "Let's try these."  He pulled up a stool with a grooved rubber ramp on the front and she pried off her right shoe with her left toe and touched her foot to the ramp.
 "You're not wearing any stockings, Mrs. Winstanley."
 "Oh.  I'm sorry."
 "Would you like a pair?"
 "Do I need them?"
 "No, it doesn't matter.  These have never been tried on."
 She withdrew her foot while he placed the shoe on the ramp and then pointed into it while he reached deftly to his breast pocket and brought a shoe horn into play.
 "How does that feel?"
 She pressed her foot down.  "Can I walk around in it?"
 "Let's try the other one first."
 When it was on she stood and walked deliberately, watching her feet and pausing before a short mirror that cut her off at the knees.
 "They're tight across there," she said.
 "They will stretch.  Let me see you walk."
 She paced out a few steps and came back.  "Do they come in half-sizes?"
 "We might even go a whole one bigger.  Let me see what we've got."
 She sat with her legs crossed, raising her foot to see the shoe.
 He came back and straddled the stool and took her right shoe off.  "You should never wear them too tight, especially across here."  He made calipers of his thumb and finger and touched her behind the big and little toes.  "You have beautiful feet, Mrs. Winstanley."
 She smiled.  "Thank you."
 "Feet like these should be in well-constructed shoes."  He put the flat of his hand against her sole to demonstrate.  "To protect the bone alignment."  He fit her foot into the shoe and pressed her toes through the leather.  "Should be lots of room in that.  Want to try that?"
 She stood and walked in it.  "It's like a boat!"
 "O.K.  I brought the half-size."  He juggled boxes, keeping his stock sorted.  "Let's try this one."
 She sat.  He took both her shoes off, fussed with the boxes and turned to her with the final right shoe, setting it on the ramp and helping her into it with the horn.
 "Women are never so feminine as in their feet," he said.  "Not that they can't be feminine if they've got unshapely feet but there's something special about pretty feet.  Don't you think?"
 Her smile faded a little and she blinked with embarrassment.  She put her right foot on the floor and raised the left but the shoe was not there ready for it and she clung to the bottom of the ramp with her toes.
 "Even when I was a kid.  The first thing I ever noticed about girls was their feet."  He held her by the ankle, cradling her heel.  "Your feet are perfect."
 "You shouldn't be talking like this."
 "Slender, trim.  Highly arched."
 "I didn't come here to--"
 "You paint your toenails."  He smiled at her.  "But with clear varnish.  That's taste.  You have taste, Mrs. Winstanley."
 "Stop this."
 He touched his lips to the knuckles of her toes, running them back and forth.  "Even your feet are tasteful."
 "Please.  I can't do this."
 "Long," he whispered.  "Delicate."  He took her middle toes into his mouth and sucked them to the base.
 "Let me go," she said, drawing back, but he held her by the heel working his suction up and down and back and forth.  "This isn't right," she said, sinking into the chair.  "What are you doing?"
 Her eyes closed and she gripped the armrests.
 "Ah!" she shouted, the briefest of syllables.
 Her behind bounced on the chair.
 "Ah!  Ah!"
 Almost immediately she came to herself.  "Oh, my God!"  She retracted herself entirely and looked around to see if anyone was watching.
 The other two clerks had come in and were standing behind her.
 "Oh, no!"  She stood up and got back into her shoes, snatched up her things and rushed away.
 "Oh!" she said, stopping.  She fumbled in her purse, hurried back and gave each of them money.
 "Thank you, Mrs. Winstanley," said the first clerk.
 "Thank you, Mrs. Winstanley," said the second clerk.
 "Thank you, Mrs. Winstanley," said the third clerk, but she was already receding toward the stairs.
 They raised their arms and waved.  "Good-bye, Mrs. Winstanley," called the first clerk.
 "Good-bye, Mrs. Winstanley," called the second.
 "Good-bye, Mrs. Winstanley," called the third.  "See you tomorrow."