“It’s a bottle of milk,” remarked the niece, examining Mr. Talliaferro with interest.
Her aunt shrieked. Her breast heaved with repression, glinting her pins and beads. “A bottle of milk? Have you turned artist, too?”
For the first and last time in his life Mr. Talliaferro wished a lady dead. But he was a gentleman: he only seethed inwardly. He laughed with abortive heartiness.
“An artist? You flatter me, dear lady. I’m afraid my soul does not aspire so high. I am content to be merely a—”
“Milkman,” suggested the young female devil.
“ — Maecenas alone. If I might so style myself,”
Mrs. Maurier sighed with disappointment and surprise. “Ah, Mr. Talliaferro, I am dreadfully disappointed. I had hoped for a moment that some of your artist friends had at last prevailed on you to give something to the world of Art.
No, no; don’t say you cannot: I am sure you are capable of It, what with your — your delicacy of soul, your—” she waved her hand again vaguely toward the sky above Rampart street “Ah, to be a man, with no ties save those of the soul! To create, to create.” She returned easily to Royal street, “But, really, a bottle of milk, Mr. Talliaferro?”
“Merely for my friend Gordon, I looked in on him this afternoon and found him quite busy. So I ran out to fetch him milk for his supper. These artists!” Mr. Talliaferro shrugged. “You know how they live.”
“Yes, indeed. Genius. A hard taskmaster, isn’t it? Perhaps you are wise in not giving your life to it. It is a long lonely road. But how is Mr. Gordon?
I am so continually occupied with things — unavoidable duties, which my conscience will not permit me to evade (I am very conscientious, you know) — that I simply haven’t the time to see as much of the Quarter as I should like. I had promised Mr, Gordon faithfully to call, and to have him to dinner soon.
I am sure he thinks I have forgotten him. Please make my peace with him, won’t you? Assure him that I have not forgotten him.”
“I am sure he realizes how many calls you have on your time,” Mr. Talliaferro assured her gallantly. “Don’t let that distress you at all.”
“Yes, I really don’t know how I get anything done: I am always surprised when I find I have a spare moment for my own pleasure.”
She turned her expression of happy astonishment on him again. The niece spun slowly and slimly on one high heel: the sweet young curve of her shanks straight and brittle as the legs of a bird and ending in the twin inky splashes of her slippers, entranced him.
Her hat was a small brilliant bell about her face, and she wore her clothing with a casual rakishness, as though she had opened her wardrobe and said, Let’s go downtown. Her aunt was saying:
“But what about our yachting party? You gave Mr. Gordon my invitation?”
Mr. Talliaferro was troubled. “We-ll — You see, he is quite busy now. He — He has a commission that will admit of no delay,” he concluded with inspiration.
“Ah, Mr. Talliaferro! You haven’t told him he is invited. Shame on you! Then I must tell him myself, since you have failed me.”
“No, really—”
She interrupted him, “Forgive me, dear Mr. Talliaferro.
I didn’t mean to be unjust. I am glad you didn’t invite him. It will be better for me to do it, so I can overcome any scruples he might have. He is quite shy, you know. Oh, quite, I assure you. Artistic temperament, you understand: so spiritual….”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Talliaferro, covertly watching the niece who had ceased her spinning and got her seemingly boneless body into an undimensional angular flatness pure as an Egyptian carving.
“So I shall attend to it myself. I shall call him to-night: we sail at noon to-morrow, you know. That will allow him sufficient time, don’t you think? He’s one of these artists who never have much, lucky people.” Mrs. Maurier looked at her watch. “Heavens above! seven thirty. We must fly. Come, darling. Can’t we drop you somewhere, Mr. Talliaferro?”
“Thank you, no. I must take Gordon’s milk to him, and then I am engaged for the evening.”
“Ah, Mr. Talliaferro! It’s a woman, I know.” She rolled her eyes roguishly. “What a terrible man you are.” She lowered her voice and tapped him on the sleeve. “Do be careful what you say before this child. My instincts are all bohemian, but she… unsophisticated…”
Her voice bathed him warmly and Mr. Talliaferro bridled: had he had a mustache he would have stroked it. Mrs. Maurier jangled and glittered again: her expression became one of pure delight. “But, of course! We will drive you to Mr. Gordon’s and then I can run in and invite him for the party, The very thing! How fortunate to have thought of it. Come, darling,”
Without stooping the niece angled her leg upward and outward from the knee, scratching her ankle, Mr. Talliaferro recalled the milk bottle and assented gratefully, falling in on the curbside with meticulous thoughtfulness.
A short distance up the street Mrs. Maurier’s car squatted expensively. The negro driver descended and opened the door and Mr. Talliaferro sank into gracious upholstery, nursing his milk bottle, smelling flowers cut and delicately vased, promising himself a car next year.
3
They rolled smoothly, passing between spaced lights and around narrow corners, while Mrs. Maurier talked steadily of hers and Mr. Talliaferro’s and Gordon’s souls. The niece sat quietly. Mr. Talliaferro was conscious of the clean young odor of her, like that of young trees; and when they passed beneath lights he could see her slim shape and the impersonal revelation of her legs and her bare sexless knees. Mr. Talliaferro luxuriated, clutching his bottle of milk, wishing the ride need not end. But the car drew up to the curb again, and he must get out, no matter with what reluctance.
“I’ll run up and bring him down to you,” he suggested with premonitory tact.
“No, no: let’s all go up,” Mrs. Maurier objected. “I want Patricia to see how genius looks at home.”
“Gee, Aunty, I’ve seen these dives before,” the niece said. “They’re everywhere. I’ll wait for you.” She jackknifed her body effortlessly, scratching her ankles with her brown hands.
“It’s so interesting to see how they live, darling. You’ll simply love it,” Mr. Talliaferro demurred again, but Mrs. Maurier overrode him with sheer words. So against his better judgment he struck matches for them, leading the way up the dark tortuous stairs while their three shadows aped them, rising and falling monstrously upon the ancient wall.
Long before they reached the final stage Mrs, Maurier was puffing and panting, and Mr. Talliaferro found a puerile vengeful glee in hearing her labored breath. But he was a gentleman; he put this from him, rebuking himself. He knocked on a door, was bidden, opened it:
“Back, are you?”
Gordon sat in his single chair, munching a thick sandwich, clutching a book. The unshaded light glared savagely upon his undershirt.
“You have callers,” Mr. Talliaferro offered his belated warning, but the other looking up had already seen beyond his shoulder Mrs. Maurier’s interested face. He rose and cursed Mr. Talliaferro, who had begun immediately his unhappy explanation.
“Mrs. Maurier insisted on dropping in—”
Mrs. Maurier vanquished him anew, “Mister Gordon!” She sailed into the room, bearing her expression of happy astonishment like a round platter stood on edge. “How do you do? Can you ever, ever forgive us for intruding like this?” she went on in her gushing italics, “We just met Mr. Talliaferro on the street with your milk, and we decided to brave the lion in his den.
How do you do?” She forced her effusive hand upon him, staring about in happy curiosity.
“So this is where genius labors. How charming: so — so original. And that—” she indicated a corner screened off by a draggled length of green rep “ — is your bedroom, isn’t it?
How delightful! Ah, Mr. Gordon, how I envy you this freedom. And a view — you have a view also, haven’t you?” She held his hand and stared entranced at a high useless window framing two tired looking stars of the fourth magnitude, “I would have if I were eight feet tall,” he corrected. She looked at him quickly, happily. Mr. Talliaferro laughed nervously.
“That would be delightful,” she agreed readily. “I was so anxious to have my niece see a real studio, Mr. Gordon, where a real artist works. Darling—” she glanced over her shoulder fatly, still holding his hand “ — darling, let me present you to a real sculptor, one from whom we expect great things…. Darling,” she repeated in a louder tone.
The niece, untroubled by the stairs, had drifted in after them and she now stood before the single marble. “Come and speak to Mr. Gordon, darling.” Beneath her aunt’s saccharine modulation was a faint trace of something not so sweet after all. The niece turned her head and nodded slightly without looking at him. Gordon released his hand.
“Mr. Talliaferro tells me you have a commission.” Mrs. Maurier’s voice was again a happy astonished honey. “May we see it?
I know artists don’t like to exhibit an incomplete work, but just among friends, you see…. You both know how sensitive to beauty I am, though I have been denied the creative impulse myself.”
“Yes,” agreed Gordon, watching the niece.
“I have long intended visiting your studio, as I promised, you
