My goodness, what was money for if not to spend, and it would be more fun seeing the Nebraska dancers with Mother.
"Is Semy's sister pretty?"
"Well, no—well, yes—in a way. I've only seen her once from across the street." What, he thought, is pretty? An in-between word. What was beauty? Degas's ballet girls weren't beautiful—like Lucy—but, boy, he knew how to draw! An artist should see beauty in anything. "She's handsome rather than pretty."
Lucy was puzzled, because everyone knows men are handsome or not, and women are pretty or homely. "Oh! How old is she?"
"I don't know, year or two older than Semy—about twenty-two." Well, for goodness sake, she was old. She must be a brunette because Clem said handsome. Brunettes are interesting. Even in the movies. Vamps. I wish I were a brunette. Anyway, I'm glad I'm not a red head. They're so pale and freckled and haven't eyelashes.
"Did you ever notice redheads never have eyelashes? Oh, I forgot you don't care about eyelashes."
Clem smiled and put down his palette knife and the handle fell into a chrome-yellow worm. He was inclined to give a redhead at least two looks, and not in the interest of art. He looked at her and then down to break an electric charge. "Damn," he muttered to the blobbed yellow.
"You're almost a redhead but you're not pale and have eyelashes. They're sort of stubby," she went on.
He avoided her gaze not to be further confused by the sparkle in her gentian eyes, more dazzling than sun on the sea.
"How would you like to break off this fascinating subject and get back to work?"
She jumped up obediently and resumed her pose. Better not laugh, because he's blushing. "Is this right?"
"Yes."
"Semy asked me to go to the Orpheum Friday night."
"Fine—why don't you?"
"I am. Wouldn't it be fun if we all went? You and mother too."
For God's sake, how old does she think I am? Must be the beard.
"The light's gone—let's stop for the day."
Lucy got to the studio early the next afternoon with a plan. She hoped Semy would come before Clem. Luckily he did.
