Opacity — the series
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Opacity is not cover
The covering rule counts a thread as a bar that stops everything, and a single fine cotton thread held to a window plainly does not. What a cloth transmits is the open area plus whatever comes through the threads, so the covered fraction is a lever rather than a barrier — and the lever is longest exactly where the rule says the cloth is most closed. Nothing here computes a thread's transmittance, and saying why is the useful half.
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Two layers are the product on average and nowhere
Everybody knows what two layers of a cloth pass: the product of their open areas. That figure is exactly right — it is the mean of the true answer over every way the two layers can lie — and it is the answer at two registrations out of a continuum. In register a doubled cloth is as open as a single one; half a thread out it can be shut completely. The variation across a folded curtain is what a moiré is.
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A cloth is more opaque than it is closed
Opacity is not cover — this collection established that already and left the discrepancy attributed to the thickness of the threads. Part of it is not in the threads at all. A hair standing in a hole blocks light exactly as well as a thread does and costs nothing in air.
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A sheer hides whichever side is darker
A net curtain hides a room by day and shows it at night, and the cloth has nothing to do with which. What a viewer sees through a sheer is an image through its clear lines of sight against a veil of lit thread, and the only thing that decides their balance is how much brighter one side is than the other. At equal light the two views are identical for every cloth there is. And a black sheer of the same openness shows twelve times more of the room by day than a white one.
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A figured sheer is a negative from one side
A net curtain with a pattern in it carries two patterns, one for each side, and by day they are opposites. A more open figure in a white voile is a dark figure a quarter below its ground from the street and a light one five per cent above it from the room, and after dark the two views trade places exactly. The figure vanishes from the street at one light ratio and from the room at another. And a figure can be made that the room cannot see at all while the street sees it nearly black — along one line of openness and thread tone, and never from both sides at once.
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A net in front gives the figure to the room
The commonest double curtain is a plain net outside a patterned one, and the plain net does not merely dim the pattern. It weakens the figure from the street by a factor of three and a half and strengthens it from the room by a quarter, so a pattern four and a half times stronger outside than in becomes one the room sees slightly better. A figure designed to be invisible from indoors reappears at nearly three per cent, and the day-and-night exchange a single curtain obeyed exactly stops holding at all.
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A curtain is gathered so that it is seen edge-on
A curtain is hung with more cloth than window, and the surplus is not decoration. Laid in folds, a length of cloth spans its own length times the cosine of its flank angle, so the fullness is the secant of that angle exactly — and a line of sight through the window meets the cloth at it. A voile's view halves at a fullness of 1.08, its flanks shut completely at 1.48, and at the two and a half times a curtain is actually hung at, every flank passes nothing and the whole of what comes through is the crests.
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What a sheer hides is decided by the furniture
Every result these essays have produced assumed the room and the street reflect the same three tenths of the light on them. That was never a fact about cloth. A room reflecting a twentieth is hidden two hundred and thirty-eight times better than the street it faces and one reflecting four fifths only fifteen times, with the same curtain at the same window — and the day-and-night exchange they rested on, exact for equal scenes, is out by more than half the glow for an ordinary pair of unequal ones.
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A sheer's privacy is the error it multiplies
Everything a passer-by sees of a room through a sheer is the room's image plus a veil the street lights, and the veil can be known without going in. So one subtraction and one division ought to read the room's reflectance from the pavement. They do not, and the reason is the curtain's whole purpose: every error in the veil arrives in the answer multiplied by the reading over the image — sixty-four through a white voile by day, three and a half at equal light. The privacy a sheer gives and the precision it denies are one number.
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Glass hides a black net and not a white voile
A window pane in front of a curtain mirrors the street, and a mirror is a veil with no thread in it. It also dims the street's light on the cloth. For a white voile the two nearly cancel, and straight on the dimming wins, so the voile is slightly easier to read through glass than without it. For a black net the mirror is most of what a passer-by sees: its multiplier goes from 2 to 5 head-on and to 25 from along the pavement. The glass makes the net private, not the voile. The angle at which it stops helping does not depend on the time of day, and a polarising filter at Brewster's angle takes the mirror out altogether.
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An upper pane mirrors a sky no curtain can afford
A pane in front of a sheer helps a reading only while what it mirrors is dim: for a white voile, below about half the brightness of a white wall lit like the window. A street-level pane mirrors the terrace across the road and stays under that. An upper pane, seen from the pavement below, mirrors the sky, and an overcast horizon — the darkest sky there is — is already twice the limit. Whether a first-floor pane shows sky depends on how far out from the façade the passer-by stands and on nothing else, so the same window is harder to see into from close up than from across the street.
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A pane leaned forward loses the sky and finds no darker mirror
A pane tilted by some angle sends a passer-by's line of sight off at twice that angle more, and the passer-by's place along the street still drops out. Tilted back about twenty degrees, a street-level pane mirrors sky from everywhere in the street and nearly doubles what a white voile hides. Leaned forward ten degrees, a first-floor pane stops mirroring sky from three metres out, and the voile behind it reads better through glass than bare. Leaning further finds nothing darker: under an overcast sky the road is a brighter mirror than the terrace opposite, by a seventh.