Vermillion felt depressed. It was disturbing to observe that hairbreadth miss, the almost invisible ash from a spark that had smoldred without flaring—the miss that one too might make. Only in the blue flowers had Brush's spark flamed.
"Look at the 'Hepaticas'—good in every way, plus the freshness of a spring woods."
"Yes, the flowers are fine."
"I take it that's official." Vermillion pinned him down.
"Be seeing you," Genlis said when Vermillion declined to leave with him for a drink.
"Who was that with you?" Clem asked Vermillion, anxious to learn what the critic had said.
"Bernard Genlis. He's the only one you can't be sure of—though he liked the 'Hepaticas' and will say so. Even if he didn't, the town is ripe for you. I'm going to take another turn around."
Clem was exultant. Success was success, no matter which painting was singled out by a critic.
As if in affirmation Lucy came up, a perfumed nimbus of pastel tints and rolls of ash-grey fur and hepatica eyes.
"I'm dressed to kill for your show," she laughed, her sparkling glance circling the room and lighting on Vermillion. "I'm going to look," she said, and went to join him.
"Mitsuoko is just what we need," he said.
"I spilled it when I opened the bottle. No, that's a lie, I always put on too much because I am so used to it I can't smell it any more."
"How is the recital coming?" It was extraordinary, he thought, how in any group she stood out as though alone.
"Fine, but it's a lot of work. I decided the Marie Laurencin number would be better with more girls so I have five. They are cute, wait till you see them."
"What will you call it?" he asked, the hinge of the painter's name disturbing him.
"I never thought of a title," she admitted, "but I suppose I have to have one."
"How about 'Precocious Girls at Play'?"
"That's it—but in French," she cried delighted.
"'Les Jeux des Filles Méchantes' perhaps? It isn't exact translation but it is to the point."
"I can't get over you being the one to tell me what to do," she marveled.
