Street crossing of Fifth with Broadway. With a springless jazzy shake the taxi darted toward the aurora glow of the misnamed Great White Way, jerking Vida back from her morbid concentration on the ticking meter. She could not enjoy taxi rides because Lucy never permitted her the luxury of paying and at the same time each ominous click reminded her of the evaporation of her prize money in the delicious joy of spending. A haircut at Lucy's hairdresser when she could just as well have cut her own; a silk teddy so she could walk around the apartment in nice underwear as Lucy did and not have to wear Congress knickers; a bottle of toilet water; a jar of face cream she didn't even like the feel of; the bottle of Placeit to keep her thick hair set; bus and el fares; re-heeled shoes; and then the staggering price of that bag of sandwiches and salads from Reuben's the night she had everything ready when Lucy brought two boys from the show for supper. Now she had seventeen dollars and a return ticket to Congress without a Pullman berth, and was in no mood to indulge Lucy's minor concern of studying Hindu dancing.
"What for?" she asked challengingly.
"I want to find out what makes him an artist. In New York everyone talks about art and I don't mean painting. That Mrs. Custerd even talked about a cook being an artist. Everyone seems to be an artist except me. Ilona says ballet isn't art because it doesn't express inner emotions, it's just technique. Master thinks good technique is art. Maybe art is personality. Do you think I have personality?"
"I'll say you have," Vida said dryly, wondering whether any man could resist Lucy.
"You don't think I'm serious! It seems to me to be an artist you have to have technique and personality and experience. Still, Clem's an artist and he has traveled but I don't think of him as experienced."
"What do you mean by experience?"
"That's just it, I don't know. It can't be just lovemaking or practically the whole chorus would be geniuses."
It took from Herald Square past the summer-closed Metropoltan Opera House to sober down from their hysterical laughter.
"That's what always happens when I try to say something serious," Lucy complained.
"I'm only a beginner trying to learn to write but from what I've read and seen at the Museum, I think you have to start with an original idea or a new or personal way of presenting an old idea and then use whatever you've got to work it out. I think experience is
