The museum was perhaps a dozen blocks south and west of the Guthrie, in what had once been a neighborhood of wealthy families, and was still a long way from crumbling. Some of the fine old mansions had been converted to offices, but others held the line, stubbornly insisting that the 1880s would be right back.

The museum was built in the classical style, with lots of steps leading up to a row of massive pillars, flanking bronze doors. The new main entrance, around the comer, was a modem addition, and wheelchair-accessible.

The inside had been thoroughly renovated, too, though here and there was a room that still showed signs of having been built the same time as the beautiful old houses in the neighborhood.

The Fasset exhibit was in two rooms, one very small and the other not really large. Betsy was disappointed to discover that Kaffe Fasset was a man. She had never considered herself much of a feminist, but needlework is so traditionally female that while it was nice to see a woman’s homely craft at last recognized as art, it would have been equally nice to have the artist be female.

On the other hand, Mr. Fasset was indeed an artist. There were gorgeous sweaters, some so enormous only an NBA star gone to fat could have worn them. Is that what makes these art? wondered Betsy. They are clothing no one can wear? Mr. Fasset favored rich earth tones of gray, mahogany, green, and gold.

The artist also did needlepoint; Betsy was intrigued by a red lobster on a checkerboard ground. His work was perfectly smooth, unmarred by errors, fancy stitches, or beadwork.

Signs everywhere warned patrons not to touch, but this was a weekday morning, and the exhibit had few visitors. Betsy took a quick peek and discovered that Mr. Fasset was not fastidious about the backs of his works. Betsy hadn’t been either, when she was doing embroidery. Would it be worth her while to work really hard and gain artistic status so she might escape the criticism the Monday Bunch leveled against messy backs?

Betsy studied a knitted shawl inspired by the arum lily, row upon row of perfect curved shapes, each marked with a narrow tongue, in a harmony of colors that made her sigh with envy and covetousness. No, she would never be this good. Better to learn to be more careful with the backside of her work.