return to Paris. New York's kneeling at one's feet could not blind one to its arid Park, stabbing towers, and streets crawling with vulgar girls in cheap Chanel copies parading their spurious youth. Jacques, enamored with New York, could remain. She turned upon him and spurted withdrawal of the promise he had extracted that she would remain.
To Lucy they seemed to be fighting and she wondered whether to take off her coat or leave at the first pause. If she left she might not be invited again and so lose the chance of learning from the source what made Simone so special. So as not to appear to listen, even though she did not understand, she looked about. The little fat Buddha was no help. He just grinned at his navel. Simone was drinking a mixture of gin and crème de menthe, straight. Her short hair, henna tinged, was a mass of angry coils. Black satin pajamas was a good idea, and those pointed mules with gold embroidery were exotic. Maybe it would have been better to wear the black ensemble. More sophisticated. The Sunday papers lay in drifts, along with a paper-covered French book. Near the bedroom door on the grey-green rug lay a black kid glove. Only old ladies wore that kind except the woman in the black cape who had come to the dressing room and talked as if she owned Simone. Lucy thought of Miss Shaver. But that's crazy, because how about Vermillion? No, it wasn't possible Simone was like Miss Shaver and her cat-eyed friend. She shifted impatiently. Four thirty, complained the French clock.
Jacques sighed, raised his two arms in resignation, and prepared to leave.
About time! thought Lucy, smiling sweetly.
At the door he turned back, bethinking a new argument.
I'll bet he'll never leave, she sulked, and settled back determined to outstay him. Probably business they were discussing but just the same it was impolite not to notice a guest.
Five o'clock, banged the French clock, and the last tinge of sun flopped out the window. Simone, recalling her guest, stood abruptly and Jacques took the hint.
Now that he was gone, she chose to let him convince her it would be unwise to leave her success in New York so soon. Naturally he was mistaken in saying that she had been unkind to Paul. There may have been a careless word precipitated by fatigue in singing to a foreign audience, but it was his place to understand. Paul was too easily offended in that amour propre of men and one must give him time to forgive her. Nevertheless a little revenge is good for the
