this time, she decided firmly. Not until I'm sure and after I've worked with him a while. He's too attractive. Maybe I'll get him to work at Ilona's, its easier to keep your mind on work there.
"Not now, I have to go. It takes me an hour to make up for the show."
"Time—time—the prison the West makes of living. You will see how I will release you from time," he said, sighing. With this one, it would not do to be insistent.
My goodness, he's sulking. "I can come Friday," she said cheerily.
"So long?"
"Well, you said time doesn't matter," she reminded. "Anyway, it's only the day after tomorrow."
Well, everything's just fine, if I just don't get disappointed all over again, Lucy thought in the taxi.
She was dressed and warming up earlier than usual. She felt good.
"Yo' sure hoppin' tonight, Miss Lucy!"
"Cleo! What are you doing here?"
"Dressin' Miss Soler, Phronie is visitin' in Detroit. I may take her place if she don't come back."
"Well, I like that! I think you ought to come back to me."
"I hears you got a French maid now. Yo' too high class fo' me."
"Oh, get out. You come back where you belong."
Chapter 27
I SAID TO MYSELF
On a clear morning the middle of November from the window of her small back room at the top of a Madison Avenue brownstone Vida Bertrand made a discovery. An isosceles triangle of sun on a square of grey brick divided by a washline equals one New York backyard. Would an artist, abstract, ink in the thin black ladder of the fire escape, paint in flat forms the dirty white towels, paint a grey shadow red, and the sun spot, blue?
