ed. "Look at their clothes! Priestly caricatures of their sex.
You're still drawing?"

"Yes. But you don't like my drawing."

"I saw one of your pictures--an abominable thing--in some needlework
magazine. A woman with a spindly nose, picking flowers."

He glanced at her and caught an eager smile in her eyes. She was someone
to whom he could talk at random. This pleased him; or perhaps it was the
sense of flattery that pleased him. He wondered if she was intelligent.
They had met several times, usually by accident. He had found himself
able to talk at length to her and had come away feeling an intimacy
between them.

"Look at the windows," he continued. "Corsets, stockings, lingerie. Shop
windows remind me of neighbors' bathrooms before breakfast. There's
something odiously impersonal about them. See, all the way down the
street--silks, garments, ruffles, laces. A saturnalia of masks. It's the
only art we've developed in America--over-dressing. Clothes are
peculiarly American--a sort of underhanded female revenge against the
degenerate puritanism of the nation. I've seen them even at revival
meetings clothed in the seven tailored sins and denouncing the devil
with their bustles. Only they don't wear bustles any more. But what's an
anachronism between friends? Why don't you paint pictures of real
Americans?--men hunting for bargains in chastity and triumphantly
marrying a waistline. If that means anything."

He paused, and wondered vaguely what he was talking about. Vivid eyes
and dark lips, a face that belonged elsewhere. He was feeding its
poignancy words. And she admired him. Why? He was saying nothing. There
was a sexlessness about her that inspired vulgarity.

"You remind me of poetry," she answered without looking at him. "I
always can listen to you without thinking, but just understanding. I've
remembered nearly everything you've said to me. I don't know why. But
they always come back when I'm alone, and they always seem unfinished."

Her words jarred. She was too naive to coquette. Yet it was difficult to
believe this. But she was an unusual creature, modestly asleep. A
fugitive aloofness. Yes, what she said must be true. There was nothing
unreasonable about its being true. She made an impression upon him. He
undoubtedly did upon her. He would have preferred her applause, however,
somewhat less blatant. But she was a child--an uncanny child who cooed
frankly when interested.

"I can imagine the millennium