provincial was tantamount to belonging to that group of painters who, having come from other rural communities the world over, now formed the School of Paris. It was not necessary to be a Parisian to belong to a coterie of which a Spaniard from Barcelona was leader. To be a provincial connoted a quixotic fellow come to Paris with a fresh individual talent, a new approach untouched by academic sterility. A primitive—innocent. Though Picasso wasn't as innocent as they said! But in New York it was different. New York was a tough place. There a provincial was a yokel from the sticks. It had been a painful surprise to find himself considered a Nebraska painter instead of a Prometheus from Paris by Raymond Figente, a rich society guy who dabbled in sculpture and set himself up as an art judge, dismissing as of no account any but those he called originals.
In Congress a girl who posed for painters was a loose woman. Except for a dime-store clerk who refused to open her blouse, Clem and two commercial artists who formed the local painters' group had to content themselves with derelicts picked up at the Salvation Army, and the ubiquitous Indian who turned up as part of the aesthetic equipment in every American life class.
Tentatively, and stressing the intention of only drawing correct ballet positions, Clem asked Lucy if she would pose. "Of course," he added, "you'll receive the regular pay of fifty cents an hour."
Her face was expressionless. So he was the painter. Her eyes tried to search his for the true meaning of the offer. A dreamy silence swathed her as her mind tried to grasp all the implications of the proposal and a sprinkle of perspiration glistened in the valley of her upper lip. Dew on a petal. She tilted her head at oblique angle, and Clem grew confused at the subtle change from a young girl into a feminine creature whose eyes faintly mocked him.
This, she marveled, is like the movies. I'm just standing here and a rich man comes and says he'll give me half a dollar an hour just to stand still so he can draw me. He's crazy. But he doesn't seem bad, like dirty old Mr. Schmidt and smelly old Mr. Brady. He isn't even so old. I wonder what he looks like without that fuzzy red beard. Maybe there's a dancing teacher in Congress. I could take lessons with all that money. A sudden doubt dispirited her. It was too good to be true. Maybe it would only take an hour to draw her. Or half an hour!
"How long would it take?"
Clem grinned. "As many times as you want to pose."
Lucy stared at him. Maybe you couldn't tell about men. His smile
