But always,
at the breaking point, he managed to summon up unexpected reserves for
resistance, intrenched himself in the manner of his first call.
Rose both smiled and wept over her review of this evening, and was a
long while getting off to sleep. She felt she couldn't stand this state
of things much longer.
But it was not required of her. With the last of the next day's light,
the ice broke up and the floods came.
She had taken him to a studio tea in the upper sixties just off West End
Avenue, the proprietors of the studio being a tousled, bearded, blond
anarchist of a painter and his exceedingly pretty, smart,
frivolous-looking wife--who had more sense than she was willing to let
appear. They had lived in Paris for years, but the fact that he had a
German-sounding name had driven them back to New York. It was through
Gertrude that Rose had got acquainted with them--she having wrung from
Abe Shuman permission for the painter to prowl around back-stage and
make notes for a series of queerly lighted pictures of chorus-girls and
dancers--"Degas--and then some," as his admirers said.
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