"Excuse me, but I must speak to Nino," she said with a blank smile, and as she turned from him he escaped into the icy twilight …
Vida was disappointed not to have an opportunity to talk with Vermillion about Clem's paintings, or anything, but it was impossible to get away from Kevin Doyle who kept pressing his rough Irish tweed against her knee. She was torn between admiration of what he said in his attractive brogue and fear of being alone with the bearded satyr, as he kept suggesting. At the moment he was saying that he found little of interest in contemporary American writing, a point of view with which she did not agree.
"It never gets beyond juvenile itch," contributed Semy, who had been boning up on Doyle's writings preparatory to calling on the Doyles at Mary's invitation.
Doyle glanced at a sly but admiring face.
"I quote you," said Semy. "You certainly murdered contemporary American fiction."
"That's a palpable imprecision, as the corpse keeps on reproducing," said Doyle, never interested in male admirers, and returned his attention to Vida.
Horta Cornwallis found Mary Doyle informative. "That's Jackson Stanley, the actor, Lucy Claudel is with. There isn't a man in town who hasn't had her."
"Present company excluded," said Kevin Doyle overhearing. He was really quite nice, Vida decided.
"Go on, buy a painting, Jack, a little culture will be good for you," Lucy said to the actor she had told to come so Clem would have a crowd. Paul Vermillion was the limit, leaving without saying goodbye.
"I'd rather buy you."
"You can't afford me."
"You're so mercenary," he said with mock sadness.
"You said it."
"Who is this guy, and what's he to you, Hecuba?"
"Hecuba? Is that some more of Shakespeare you're always spouting? Nothing the way you mean. He's just a famous artist. I might even get him to paint your portrait."
"Like that!" He pointed to the portrait of Senator Lauter. "Nothing doing. I'm a juvenile, remember?"
"I'll tell him to paint you pretty."
***
