Lucy. Was he in love? He'd never felt like this about a woman and, love aside, she had become a kind of touchstone where his painting was concerned since that day in front of Cheever's window.
"The paint box is too heavy. You can carry the sketchbook if you want to."
She tucked it under her arm and hung to his shoulder to help her over the uneven rough spots.
"It's a shame we couldn't eat all that good lunch. Maybe it'll keep. And weren't we lazy, we didn't pick a single flower. I thought I'd have an armful for Mother."
"Late for spring flowers."
"That's right, spring's almost gone. Next week's the first day of summer, and then there are only five more weeks."
"What do you mean—five more weeks to what?"
"Mother and I are going to New York, August first."
It did not register. "For how long?"
"How long? Why to live! Remember I told you I was going to New York City to study ballet? I'm going to study with Fokine. My teacher in Denver studied with him and she's coming to New York City too."
He felt as though he had received a kick in the belly. So, just like that, while full of thoughts that perhaps here in Congress he might achieve a love and life never experienced in Paris, it was taken away from him. In Paris or New York he would have taken without thought what had been offered this afternoon. He never had felt so alone as this minute, not even in Paris.
"Do you want me to pose tomorrow?" Lucy asked hesitantly as they were about to part. He hadn't said one word on the streetcar.
He was silent so long Lucy decided he was angry and was going to leave without answering. Then he turned savagely, held her tight as though to keep from falling, and said "You'd better, if you're going to run off and leave me flat."
Men certainly are funny.
