WHEN I was young—really young, a little girl— we used to play a game, one of those universal games that go under different names in different countries. "I packed my Saratoga trunk to go to Europe," each player began by reciting, "and in it I put—" Then he was supposed to list the things put in it by those who'd preceded him, and to add something of his own—a pair of riding-boots, a diamond necklace, or whatever. One after another player would drop out, as they forgot some content of the trunk; whoever was left, won, Saratoga trunks were enormous, with arched cover and several trays lined (I remember from a real one in our attic) with linen; for some occult reason the body of the trunk was lined with old newspapers. One could learn a lot about the 1880's from scanning the lining of our Saratoga trunk.

Nowadays when I pack my clothes to go to New York, it is in a feather-light suitcase I bought in London in 1959 (and horrified my husband by paying the equivalent of $65. 00 for) since I shall probably have to carry it myself at the airport, if not from the taxi into the club where I stay. And in it I put— well, I put the minimum. The basic essentials of what I once saw called, in an airline advertisement, "toiletries," the fewest dresses I can get by with. Not more than two pairs of shoes. A vintage pair of rubbers because I, who hate wet feet, shall stand waiting for so many buses (which now cost 50$), and a small umbrella to protect me from the tempests across the savage steppes of Manhattan. Over one last, tubular object I hesitate: "Guardian Rescue Device" it says on it; "For Protection Against Attack." I drop it into my bag; then, as ever, I take it out again, and put it back in the drawer. Plenty of