"Maybe he doesn't paint."
Suddenly he felt good again. Of all the American crowd in Paris it was only himself of that group who had accomplished anything. He had sold paintings to important people in the Midwest, he had evolved a new American style, and he was going to have a New York exhibition. The rest sat around and talked or, like Vermillion, played with women.
"Here's to New York," he said happily and raised his glass high.
Chapter 28
MASTER OF DANCE, MASTER OF LOVE
Walking to Ranna's, Lucy thought of her first meeting with Clem two weeks before. Even though she had asked Vida to invite him backstage she had hoped he wouldn't come. She had told herself her attitude was unsporting. It wasn't Clem's fault that she had believed he could teach her what love is but the thought of seeing him had embarrassed her, as she never had written, and without his help she might still be in Congress. But the meeting had been easy, what with the backstage hubbub and Vida, Semy, and Herold present so she didn't have to be alone with him. He had been tickled, too, at being introduced to Tessie and all the principals as "Mr. Brush, the famous artist." Later, at the Astor, she had been careful how she looked at him and they had all had a gay old time.
It was strange how your idea of a person changed. At first Clem had seemed a nice elderly man; then, the more she was with him, not at all old but grown up and experienced compared to boys like pawing Harry, a man who liked her and could tell her things. Until he had made love. Now, seeing him again after having known other men, you could tell how inexperienced he was with women. They scared him; it was as if he didn't believe in himself as a man with women, you felt it by the begging way he held your hand. Maybe some women don't care about that. He ought to have a nice wife who thinks he's the cat's pajamas. Like Semy thinks he is. It was a lesson in buttering up to watch Semy flatter that horrible Herold. Always pushing himself forward but acting the shrinking violet. It
