charcoal paper. Charcoal was easier to manipulate for a first sketch.
Scratching of charcoal. Lucy stifled a yawn but he did not notice. He seemed to have forgotten about her. Balance was on the back leg; even so, the figure did not stand and he wiped off the foot. The foot was too big, and the heel not under the spine. He breaded a piece of rubber in moist nervous fingers and erased some off the toe. There, that was it. The figure was blocked in; of course, he was only trying for a general line. He got up and backed away to look at his work.
Was that what he had thought so right close by? The figure was off. It didn't stand. Legs too long—because he had been looking up at her. Charcoal was too coarse for such a drawing, a pencil line would be better. He came forward and rubbed off the whole figure.
"You'd better rest a while."
Lucy yawned, and sat down on the chair he put on the platform. Dancing was easier than posing. She wanted to see how he drew her picture but didn't like to ask. He seemed cross.
Clem put coffee on a gas plate, lit a cigarette, and looked at her. She sat, legs apart, well turned out, leaning on her knees.
A Degas pose. Not graceful, but interesting. A pose should be interesting. That had been his mistake, trying to pose her. He got a sketch pad and pencil.
"Can you sit, comfortably like that, a little while?"
She nodded. A silly way to draw a dancing picture, but she should worry at fifty cents an hour.
The drawing pleased Clem though he had to admit chairs were almost as hard to draw as figures. One thing about the cubists, they weren't held back by physical representational details. It was more effective to make a freely arbitrary construction. Still one should know how to draw. Very few cubists could in the Leonardo anatomical sense. Picasso could. Of course, that was an old-fashioned slant. Still! The coffee boiled over.
Lucy jumped down and walked around the studio while Mr. Brush poured coffee. It felt good to move around.
"Next time," he said, handing her a cup, "I'm going to begin to paint you." An impression, like Laurencin he thought.
"Can I see my picture?" Lucy asked tentatively. She liked the big man with the hesitating voice. He was gentle and kind and had said there would be a next time.
She looked at the figure with shadowy pencil lines for arms and
