new worlds out of this old one, according to each special talent, but that they get more out of life is not true. It is only a way of passing the time. No matter what they make, the old world remains and is as incomprehensible to them as it is to those who do not make art. It is all a substitution, a manner of not seeing the real face of the world, dressing it up—as you and I use lipstick. For women and men the most important thing to know and have is love. And so, my child, I presume to advise you not to bother your beautiful head with such trivialities. To love, and be loved, is the only art that matters."
Lucy looked at Simone's sad face, and her lips parted to utter an objection but she couldn't think of one. Vermillion too had told her not to concern herself with art: it was as if they were keeping something from her. Naturally love was important, the most important thing, but what did that have to do with becoming an artist? Anyone could see Simone was unhappy because of Vermillion, but not about being an artist.
"Well, you know how it is, a person thinks about these things. People always think blondes have nothing in their heads. You never hear anyone say 'a dizzy brunette' only 'a dizzy blonde.'"
Simone made an inconclusive gesture of denial, put out her cigarette, and poured them each a drink. "Perhaps you have not known many artists—composers, writers, painters—that is why you romanticize," she said restlessly, wearied of the chatty detour.
"Some. I know Sherman Moses, the composer for some of the best shows. He's not much of a talker and is always nervous unless he's at the piano. I said to him I think you're awfully bashful for a great artist and he blushed. I liked that. It's a funny thing, on Broadway the composers and writers are modest, it's the actors and actresses, even showgirls, who are stuck-up and they're always 'on.' My friend Vida Bertrand is a writer. Not for Broadway, serious. She's a very intelligent girl, but she thinks the way you do about art. We talk about it often. Then I have several friends who are painters. I think I've learned most from them."
Simone perked up. "Yes, I forgot, you are a friend of Vermillion's." She forced her voice to be casual.
"Yes, in fact I think he is the most interesting person I've ever met," Lucy said, surprising herself with a judgment heretofore unformulated and, observing Simone's face tighten, added quickly, "and you of course."
Six o'clock, interrupted the French clock.
