WHITEWASH
"A stork on one leg," Victoria retorted, in a whisper.
He looked pained. "Don't you admire it?"
"The music, yes."
"No, the idealization."
"Meaning the acrobatics? I can't say I do."
He sighed. "It is not her best, perhaps. You should see her do the Rubaiyat!"
Victoria flamed. "The Rubáiyát! She dares!"
"A genius always dares."
"Good heavens!" The gray eyes filled with resentment. "Anything but that—it's sacrilege!"
The music ceased. A murmur of delight, a sudden chorus of adulation met the "artists."
"They actually applaud that!" Victoria exclaimed, in amaze.
"Applaud and pay for the privilege elsewhere. She gets one hundred and fifty dollars and more for a dance."
Victoria rubbed her eyes. "I have been away for some time, I know, and there is nonsense enough in Europe over such things, but—never, never would have believed it possible here."
