He was outraged by this probing. "My dear Lucy, really!"
She laughed. "You're really very conventional, aren't you?"
He smirked. "Far from it."
She shook her finger in mock-severity. "You old rascal, you! Did Hal bleach his hair to match his harp? It's the same color."
"May I remind you that I'm working."
"Why don't you make bigger figures—seems a lot of work for such a little statue!"
"I prefer small exquisite things. I find large sculptures vulgar."
"I should think modeling little figures is fun. It's easier than painting, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said curtly.
That was the wrong thing to say. Clem hadn't liked her to say what she thought about his paintings either.
Figente worried the soft red clay. Naivete could hurt when a direct finger heedlessly probed sore spots. "By the way, I've had a letter from Lyle, he's due from Europe any day."
"He's been away a long time, hasn't he?"
"Yes—very careless of you not to keep in touch, my dear."
"To tell you the truth," she began confidentially—
"You mean you don't always?" he interrupted.
"No—why should I?"
They were laughing when the house phone rang. "Ask him to come over," Figente said, meaning to the studio which was the old carriage house across the garden courtyard of his home.
"Lyle?" asked Lucy distressed.
"No, Paul Vermillion—perhaps you'd like to dress."
Behind in the dressing room she listened inquisitively.
"So you decided to come home. What happened?"
She could tell it was someone Figente was glad to see.
"Did something have to happen?" a pleasant medium-low voice said.
"Don't be like that—where's Simone?"
Lucy dressed hastily. She'd heard that that French singer, Simone Calvette, Beman had wanted had gone off with a lover and here he was.
"I have no idea."
She mustn't miss any of this. But Figente didn't pursue the subject.
"When did you get back?"
"End of February."
