The Personal Secretary

He met her at a Party Andy Halversen gave for somebody visiting Paris, and she said, "If you really like me as much as all that, you might as well know I prefer older men."

"To take the place of your father, I presume?"

"Oh, no, my father's a young man."

"Well, I am old, and you're young at any rate."

"Also intelligent and healthy, although not beautiful."

"Really? I should imagine you'd consider yourself sensationally beautiful."

"Oh, no; alive, but not beautiful. A beautiful girl is relaxed and reserved. I know, because I used to be beautiful."

"Well, just how old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-two, but I look 62, don't I?"

"Sixteen, I thought."

"Sixteen, and drinking champagne this way?"

"In Paris, yes. In Philadelphia, no. Is that where you're from?"

"Certainly not. I was born in Paris. December 11, 1939."

"Oh, this party's for you, then."

"No, why should it be?"

"Because today is December 11, that's why."

"Will you give me a present?"

"Yes, of course. What would you like?"

"You will give it? In honor of my birthday?"

"Yes, unless it's something impossible. What is it?"

"Promise?"

"OK, promise."

"I want to be your personal secretary."

"I don't understand. Perhaps it's because I've never had an impersonal secretary, let alone a personal one."

"Of course you understand. You are not a young man."

"No, but I used to be. Is it possible you believe I'm somebody I'm not? Well, these are the facts, no matter what appearances may be. I am Red Mahari. I am even older than you think. I am a Californian by birth but something else again by race."

"Oh, I know. You're Kurdish."

"What can you pos- (continued on page 106) Personal Secretary (continued from page 101) sibly know about such people?"

"I know Red Mahari is Kurdish."

"Somewhat, at any rate. My profession is -- art. Several kinds of it. Mainly, I paint. I have been married three times. I am now divorced three years. Five feet 11. One hundred and 75 pounds. Restless. Inconstant. Irresponsible. Impossible. And I'm glad I came to this party, after all. Now, do you know who I am?"

"I knew the minute I saw you."

"Well, I couldn't be more pleased. Perhaps you won't mind telling me about yourself, then."

"Top to bottom, 34-22-37."

"So I notice. It must be quite a struggle to get your waist to 22, and then go right on to 37 that way."

"Oh, no, it's natural. I wear no corset, even. I will show you."

"No, no, I'll take your word for it, believe me. I enjoy an intellectual chat of this kind now and then. I once read somewhere about a religious order which requires its men to appear unmoved by the proximity of beautiful women. A fierce order of discipline, I mean, entirely unsuitable for me, I thought, but here I am in the same situation, and apparently equal to it. I suppose I'm ready to join that order."

"You are not moved?"

"To the point of total disbelief. Your husband is surely somewhere about, drinking and chatting with somebody, Perhaps the plainest woman at the party -- for contrast, diversion, variety, most likely."

"I have no husband."

"Your -- what's the French word? Well, your fiancé, then."

"I have no fiancé, either. You are Still not moved?"

"Well, let me put it this way, I don't believe it."

"Me?"

"Yes. I haven't looked at another woman since I arrived at this party. Why should I? The 37 is what gets me. I mean, in relation to the 22 and the 34. You did say 37, didn't you?"

"Yes. It is a tradition in my family. Very large where very large is right. For children, you understand."

"Your mother is also 37?"

"Forty-four. In years, however, only 41."

"Perhaps I ought to meet her."

"You are very funny. I knew you would be. You do not wish a personal secretary?"

"Well, what would you do?"

"Manage. Everything. You do your work, I do my work."

"What is my work, and what is yours?"

"You are to paint, and I am to be painted. Again and again."

"I think I had better let one of the other boys step up and take over now. I've had more than my share of good luck for one party. Before I go, just let me tell you I shall never be able to believe any of this, and I shall not try to make anybody else believe it, either. In other words, it didn't happen."

"You do not take me seriously?"

"More seriously than you might ever suspect. Don't change. Not even a little."

He moved away quickly, and a young French composer stepped up and took over.

Andy Halversen said, "She asked me to invite you, Red. I told her I would, but that I could never be sure you would show up. She said you would. Well, there it is. You did. How come?"

"Andy, let's skip the chit-chat. Who is she?"

"Gale Bailey."

"Cut it out, will you? She told me herself she was born in Paris. She speaks with an accent."

"The daughter of Augustus Bailey, who was in the American Embassy in Paris when she was born. Her mother is a mixture of 63 nationalities, including Norwegian, but of course she thinks of herself as French. Or Parisian. Her mother's people have all been here from long before Napoleon. She is out of Murat or somebody. Anything else?"

"Well, yes. What did she ask you to invite me for?"

"You ought to be able to figure that out for yourself, shouldn't you?"

"I've made a name for myself precisely by overlooking the obvious, and I'm not interested in it now. First of all, I don't believe it. I don't trust it. I come from a people who are by nature disbelieving. Not cynical, but honest. Now, what's going on?"

"You mean, you don't believe a girl like Gale Bailey could be interested in you?"

"No, sir."

"Well, what about the other women who have been interested in you?"

"They haven't been truly interested in me. I didn't especially mind because I wasn't interested in them, either, except insofar as they gave variety to my work."

"What a cad."

"Precisely. What does she want?"

"I got the impression she wanted to meet you, so she could begin to know you, that's all."

"OK, I'll take that, for the time being, and gladly, but something tells me to watch it. What are you writing these days?"

"Another novel, of course, and she's in it, and you're going to be, soon."

"I am?"

"You've been in the last three. Why shouldn't you be in this one, too?"

"I had no idea. I don't read."

"So I've heard, which of course is most encouraging."

"You've made me out the fool I am, is that it?"

"The fool you aren't might be nearer the truth. I sent you all three of the books. Aren't you ever going to read them?"

"I love books. I even like to read a little, but not novels. Especially good ones. They annoy me. They make me jealous. You fellows have the best of it, you know. Gale Bailey, then. The name doesn't even sound real. Not for her, at any rate. Well, it's a nice party, Andy. Thanks for asking me."

"You're not going?"

"I've got to."

"Are you afraid of her?"

"Terrified."

"Are you really?"

"I don't believe her. I don't believe a thing about her. Her beauty. Her figure. Her voice. Her eyes. The way she talks. The way she stands. There's a catch to the whole thing somewhere."

"She's a genius of some kind. That's the catch. Any message?"

"From me to her?"

"Yes, of course. She has no idea you're running away. Is there anything you want me to tell her?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Well, here. Let me give you her phone number."

"Just try. Great party, Andy. I'll give one soon and you've got to come."

He walked down Rue du Bac to the Seine, across Pont Royal to the Opéra, and then up to his flat. When he went in she was standing at the easel where he worked, staring at the painting he had started when he had suddenly remembered Andy's party and had taken off, because he was two hours late.

"How'd you get in?"

"The door was open. This is a great one. I've been looking at it almost a whole hour. But it needs something."

"You probably need something, too."

"Brandy, if you have some."

"I have, and then after the brandy, you need something else, and rather than put you to trying to guess what it is, I'll tell you. You need a young husband, but a brilliant one. As brilliant as he's young. And then, of course, two or three kids. And how that you've gulped down that brandy like nothing, here's another, and then one of two things: level with me, or permit me to get you home in a taxi. I've done all the walking I want to do for one night."

"I don't know what to say."

"Why have you come here?"

"To be here, of course. Where you are."

"But why?"

"Do you know what I'm doing as fast(continued on page 122) Personal Secretary (continued from page 106) as I can? I'm trying to invent a lie, so you'll believe I am telling the truth, but I just can't think of a lie like that."

"Why not just tell the truth itself?"

"Are you painting me?"

"I'm painting the picture."

"But you're looking at me, and then painting, as if I were posing."

"In the religious order I spoke of at the party, the boys maintained integrity by going right on with their work in the presence of the beautiful women, and their work was to concentrate on -- don't move, that's right -- the eternal verities, so to say."

"Oh, now, if you really must, put down that brush, and take me in your arms. You're going mad with control."

"Better mad, controlled, than deceived, and uncontrolled again. That's right. Hold that. That bogus astonishment."

"It's not bogus."

"Now. What do you want? And don't have another brandy. I don't want to be rude, but if you were to get drunk and I were to get stupid, I'd never be able to finish this picture."

"What do I want?"

"Yes."

"I want you to finish that picture."

"Then get out of here."

"Until when?"

"Until you've married that brilliant young man I spoke of."

"I don't know where to find him. I took your phone number. I'm going to phone, and you mustn't say I can't. Don't stop your work. I'm gone."

Red heard her going down the stairs but he kept right on painting because there was something in her he wanted to get into the picture, if possible. He must have worked two hours or more because when he stopped, it was almost two in the morning. What her presence had brought to the painting was a quality of speed and light, and he just couldn't quite understand that. And it wasn't that he painted automatically, or that his work was abstract. He painted deliberately and thoughtfully, and his stuff only looked abstract at first glance. After that, it was seen to be specific and detailed, all manner of recognized forms in all manner of relationships. Gale Bailey. Impossible.

When Red woke up in the morning he smelled coffee, as if somebody near were making some. Somebody near was. Gale Bailey, in the kitchen. She was now a daytime creature entirely. She wore a dress that was designed to conceal her, not a sack, but something like it, made out of a heavy wool of wintry red. She wore no make-up.

He wasn't surprised to see her, but he never talked in the morning, so he just accepted the cup of coffee and took it into the workroom and sat on the great rock he had there which he liked to sit on. He had found it on the banks of the Rhone and had decided to have it. Now, you don't keep rocks that weigh half a ton. They keep themselves. He had gone to a lot of trouble about that one, and he had got it up to his place. He had had it for three years. It just sat there in the workroom, and now and then he sat on it.

Red drank the coffee and looked around. She was almost hidden, to be out of the way, but at the same time she wanted to be near in case he wanted another cup. He handed her the empty cup and she brought a second, without taking a lot of time or making any noise. He drank that cup, too -- black, without sugar. After the coffee he rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and smoked it.

He glanced at the painting while he smoked. He wondered what it was he was after in it. When you're past 40 you don't get as many surprises from your work as you do when you're 25, but you get some. He didn't know what kind of a surprise he was going to get from this painting, but he knew he was going to get a surprise of some kind.

He thought, "If I'm not going to get a surprise from a new painting, I know it, and I go to a lot of trouble to make it good. But when I am going to get a surprise, all I want to do is paint the picture, and not care about how well I paint, because if you make it too good, you might paint out the surprise. You use every bit of talent you have when a painting doesn't matter. You use something else when it does. What it amounts to is that you let the painting paint itself."

He got up and went to work.

He never washed when he got up in the morning. He just got up and wandered around and sat on the rock and remembered everything he needed to remember in order to go back to work. There were always at least 20 or 30 unfinished things to be worked upon, to be continued, but there was never a hurry about any of them, until he was actually at work on one of them, and then of course there was.

He worked for quite a while, now. He gathered she was around doing something, because he could hear her, and of course you always know when somebody is around. It was another cold morning, but the place didn't seem cold. He generally felt best when his studio wasn't too warm, when it was cold in fact, but now he was glad the place was warm for a change. She had probably lighted the heater that he'd had for three years but had hardly ever lighted, a simple thing that you could roll anywhere you wanted to have it.

After he had worked an hour or two he noticed that the heater was not much more than four feet off, directly behind him. Well, all right, then. He needed a wash, a shave, a shower, a change of clothes, but he felt fine. He sat on the rock again, and after a moment she came into the clutter.

"Last night you said, 'What do you want?' Well, I've given the matter a lot of thought. I want this painting to be your best."

"Why?"

"Because you'll always associate it with me, and I want you to think about me nicely."

"Why wouldn't I, in any case?"

"I'm different with everybody I know. Best so far is who I am with you. I mean, it's the best start so far, and I'd like to stay that way. I've been some pretty awful variations of myself, mainly clever and calculating."

"You seem clever enough right now. You certainly haven't annoyed me by being around. On the contrary, I've been glad. That's kind of calculating, isn't it? What do you do? What's your program? I mean, you get up in the morning. You go to lunch somewhere. You walk or shop or something. You go to a cocktail party somewhere, or have drinks with somebody at a bar, and then you go to dinner, but what's your real program? What do you do?"

"I paint."

"You'll have to leave here immediately. I'm not going to teach anybody anything. I don't know how. And I don't like having another painter hanging around watching everything I do."

"Boiled eggs."

"How do you mean?"

"I boil two eggs. After they're boiled I paint them, and then I eat them."

"What do you go to all that trouble for?"

"I enjoy going to a little trouble like that. I like color. I like eggs, and not just to eat. I like every egg I've ever seen for its own dear sake."

"Well, nobody can say you're mistaken about the egg. It is beautiful."

"Would you like a couple?"

"Painted?"

"Yes."

"Well, one, maybe."

"How would you like it?"

"Not gooey. Five minutes."

"Any particular color?"

"I leave that to you."

Well, she was probably daft, but all the better, because who isn't? And who could be better daft than somebody who paints boiled eggs? She soon came back with an egg in an eggcup. The egg was painted red and black, fine lines all over. It looked pretty good. Red was about to tap the top of it with a spoon and start to cat when it occurred to him that it was too good for that. He took it out of the eggcup and turned it around in his fingers, to see it better. He then put it back in the eggcup and set it down on the mantel over the fire-place in which he hadn't built a fire in years. Too much trouble. You've got just so much time to do stuff, and he found he wanted to do other things than keep his place entirely right, like. He picked up a brush and went back to work, looking at the egg on the mantel. When he stopped the sun was shining through the windows, so he knew it was two or three in the afternoon. When he worked he didn't think about anything else, much. He just stood there and worked.

He sat down on the rock, and she came and looked at the painting.

"It's going to be your best."

"What else do you do?"

"I argue a lot. I mean, with people who like to argue. My mother loves to. We're always arguing."

"What seems to be the trouble?"

"She doesn't want me to be like her, but of course every day I get to be more and more like her."

"What's the matter with her? I mean, why doesn't she want you to be like her? What's she got against herself?"

"Lack of purpose, she says."

"She doesn't have a purpose?"

"Not the slightest, she says. She's just there, and she says it doesn't mean anything."

"Yes, I can see that you could argue about a thing like that. You don't have a purpose, either? Is that it?"

"What purpose could I have?"

"Well, I don't know, but some people do, that's all."

"My mother doesn't, and neither do I."

"Well, you paint eggs, at any rate."

"Would you like me to paint another?"

"Not unless you've got an overpowering compulsion to do so."

"Well, I have, as a matter of fact. Five minutes?"

"Well, yes. Five's all right. Six, maybe."

"Six, then."

He looked at the egg in the eggcup, and then back at his painting, and a little something or other began to occur to him that was both amusing and confusing. The girl was truly rare, both visibly and indivisibly. That amused him. She was also probably extraordinarily bright. For instance, it seemed to him that the business of the painted egg might very well have been deliberate, to affect his eye and the painting he was painting, for the fact was that he had worked for hours after he had imagined he had been finished for the day, and this work had been the consequence entirely of having noticed the egg she had painted. That confused him.

Now, by the time he had been amused and confused, she came with the second egg in a second eggcup.

"You simply must eat this one. They're for eating."

"Well, yes, I know they are, but I've never seen eggs painted before, except Easter eggs, and the fancy work of the Czechs and the Ukrainians. Now, this one's different. This one's three stripes."

"I'm quite patriotic sometimes."

"Are those stripes red, white and blue?"

"Oh, no. Green, yellow and orange."

"How do you get patriotic out of green, yellow and orange?"

"I didn't say American patriotic, I said patriotic, period. Now, please eat it, that's what it's for."

"I wouldn't think of it. Patriotic for what, then?"

"Whatever's green, yellow and orange. A lot of good things are. How long will it take you to finish the picture?"

"Why?"

"No reason."

"Well, the fact is, I don't know. I've finished many in 24 hours. On the other hand, I have a pretty good assortment that I haven't finished after 24 years. Are you going somewhere?"

"Well, yes, I was thinking of going to Spain."

"When?"

"As soon as the picture's finished."

"Twenty-four years?"

"Well, I'd only be 46."

"I'd be an old man. What's in Spain?"

"It's cold in Paris. The weather has been miserable all year. No real sun at all."

"Well, don't let me keep you. When Spain calls, answer the call."

"Spain isn't calling, I am."

"Well, when you call Spain, answer your call."

"Why should I? I'd be running in every direction if I answered every call, wouldn't I?"

"OK, up on the mantel with the green, yellow and orange. I'm going to call out to Spain, too, one of these days, and I'm going to answer the call, too."

"When?"

"Whenever I call, I'm going to answer. I need more than 24 hours for this painting, though. Maybe two weeks, maybe 24 years, and maybe it won't work at all. It seems rather strange that I haven't heard the phone ring."

"I put some paper between the hammer and the bell, so you wouldn't hear it, but I heard it."

"Who called?"

"Oh, six or seven people. I wrote their names down."

"Men, women, children?"

"All women, including your daughter Nari. She wanted to know if she could come by at three, and of course I said she could."

"Thanks. I would have said the same."

"I'll go, then."

"Why?"

"Well, it's almost half past three."

"So what?"

"I should imagine you'd rather not have me around when your daughter comes to visit."

Red heard her going down the stairs again. She was still Gale Bailey, still impossible, but more than ever the most troublesome and attractive woman he had ever met.

He shaved and showered and put on a change of clothes. When he went out into the studio he was surprised to find his daughter and Gale Bailey there.

"I brought her, Papa. We met in the court. I insisted she come back. Aren't you the lucky one?"

"No doubt. I had no idea anybody was here at all."

"We've only been 10 minutes. You shave and shower and dress faster than anybody in the world, Papa. My husband takes hours."

"He's young. Well, now, how about a martini?"

"Papa, I'd love one, but I know you haven't had a bit of food all day. I can tell. Let me fix a steak or something."

"I'm not hungry, actually. After a couple of drinks, if you're both free, I'll take you somewhere for steaks."

"Me, free, Papa? Two babies at home?"

"How are the kids?"

"That's why I came. The boy is fine, kind of like you, but the little girl just won't rest."

"She's kind of like you."

"Dan thinks the girl feels unloved. What do you think, Papa?"

"Well, to make sure, just give her a little extra love. What could be more pleasant?"

"She's just like me, Papa. I hate her."

"It comes to the same thing. Here, I think these ought to be cold enough, now."

They drank a couple of martinis each, and then they went out, to walk, down Mogador to the Opéra, then to Vendôme, and then to Concorde, the afternoon cold and gray. They took the Champs to Rond Point, and from there they took Matignon to the Berkeley. They were between the lunch and dinner hours, but there were still people at the tables, and they had another martini, and then Nari had oysters and Gale Bailey had a lobster and he had a steak.

Joe Greeley of The New York Times came over to meet the pretty girls, he said. He sat down, just as the girls excused themselves to go to the powder room.

"I don't know which is more beautiful, Red, your daughter or your -- well, what shall I say?"

"Gale Bailey. That's her name. You're a newspaperman. Do you know anything about her? I don't."

"Well, she's unbelievable."

"So I've told her. What are you writing?"

"Politics, the same as ever."

"I don't mean for the paper, I mean for yourself."

"Well, a novel, of course, but who isn't writing a novel? Certainly every newspaperman in the world."

"How long have you been in Paris?"

"Too long, but I was too long in Moscow before I came to Paris. I'll take this any day -- after Paterson, New Jersey."

"What's there?"

"I was born there, that's what. Gale Bailey, is that right?"

"Well, I should imagine you would have heard about her, or about her father, or her mother."

"There it is. I haven't. Do you want me to get a line on her or something?"

"Well, the fact is, Joe, no, I don't. I mean, I want to know more about her, but I just don't think I ought to find out, except from her."

"I'm giving a little cocktail party a week from tomorrow. Will you bring her?"

"I'm working, but I'll try not to forget."

"And don't forget to bring her."

"No, you'll have to invite her. I may not be able to make it. Andy Halversen can tell you where to reach her."

"Don't you know?"

"No, I don't."

"Red, it's good to see you."

Joe Greeley meant this as wit, as it was, most likely, and then he went back to his table where another newspaperman was studying a copy of Figaro.

The girls came back and he took Nari home, so he could see the boy of three and the girl of two. Gale Bailey and Nari and the kids had a lot of fun talking and laughing and playing with toys together while he kept thinking about the painting, and at the same time about Gale. The fact is he couldn't think of one without thinking of the other, just as she had hoped, or planned, or whatever it was.

He didn't say goodbye. He just left, and began to walk back to the painting, because he wanted to work some more.

He was a long time getting home, thinking all the while, not so much about the painting alone because whenever a painting was worth the bother it made him think about everything. You probably couldn't call it thinking at all, though. Something else. The Germans had a word for something like it, meaning, he'd heard, world-sorrow or human-sorrow or something-sorrow, but that wasn't anything like what he was thinking or feeling, although it wasn't world-gladness or human-gladness, either. It was a kind of rejoicing in insignificance, but not his own insignificance alone. It was the insignificance of everything, which he felt constituted a kind of sanctity. The world -- what a place, whereever you happened to go. The human race -- what an impossibility, whoever you happened to be, or to know, or to be thinking of, as he was thinking first of his astonishing daughter Nari, who in spite of her 24 years still called him Papa, and then of Nari's son, Red's own grandson, who was in fact not unlike what Red himself must have been like at three, and then of Nari's daughter, unbelievably true and beautiful, unaccountable and impossible.

There they were, in Paris at the moment, and Paris stank. It had stunk for a whole year, and he had loved every dismal minute of it: rain, gloom, clutter, cold, impatience, contempt, control, comedy, and thank God for work.

At the memory of work he stopped at The Royal Trinity for an Italian coffee because he wanted to see about thinking a little more sharply about the painting, so he would be ready to go straight to work the minute he got home.

Well, what was the painting, actually, so far? Well, it wasn't anything, although it was moving along to something made out of light, water, stone, grass, animal eye, fur, feather, beak, bill, foot, tooth, claw, and six or seven other things he wasn't sure of, all of it in blues and greens with a little black here and there, and the whole thing waiting for a little red.

As a matter of fact, he'd gotten his name from his use of red somewhere or other in every one of his canvases, from the beginning years ago, in California, his birthplace, his work and growth place: the melon country. Was the red from the watermelons he had tended, harvested and eaten? No doubt about it. It had to be. His hair certainly wasn't red. It was black. Always had been, as his name had always been Rustam, not Red.

The painting wasn't anything, but as always he was able to believe that it was moving toward becoming something, and that was as much as anybody could ever hope for about anything, or anybody. It was certainly what he hoped for for his grandkids. And for the kids and grand-kids of the others at the bar of The Royal Trinity. Two men, surely as old as himself, were playing the American pinball machine in the corner. Back of their rivalry was surely a powerful memory of kids and grandkids, just as back of his preoccupation with the unfinished painting was the memory of his own. Well, he painted and the pinball players did other work, whatever it might be, and it came to pretty much the same thing. Not quite something, but also not quite nothing. There was always the drama of not knowing very much about anything, of hoping to find out a little something, at last. And it didn't matter that a man never quite made it. Being involved at all was the important thing, the only thing, and at its best, in spite of hell, being involved was fun. That was probably the secret of it all. There was fun in all of it, including failure, pain, apathy and death, most likely, although he couldn't be sure about that, as he had never died. For all he knew the best fun of all might very well be dying.

Was that what the painting was moving to?

Well, he'd better get along and have another look at it and see.

What he saw when he reached his workroom made him smile: a third painted egg in a cup on the mantel over the fireplace, like a code message from her to make the painting his best -- for her, for the variation of herself she liked best.

The painting itself stopped him from wondering about what was in it and what it was moving to, because he could see so much to do, right now, before he forgot. But he needed one last look at the third egg: it was all red.

Well, she was one of those girls who got around, that's all. As for getting into his house, nothing could be easier, since he always forgot to lock the door, or was it that he always remembered not to lock it? In any case, he was glad she had been in and had left the message. The three eggs on the mantel looked pretty good, and they reminded him of the fun that was probably the secret of it all.

He went straight to work. When he stopped he knew the painting was finished, and he noticed that day had broken, insofar as a day can break in December. He sat on the big rock from the banks of the Rhone and rolled a cigarette.

"She'll like it," he thought. "It certainly wouldn't be the painting it is if she hadn't become involved in it. Perhaps I'd better give it to her. I'll never be able to do another like it, but that's all right. No more where that came from, but take it, it's all yours. Is that Spain calling? Hell no, it's the shower calling, and the bed, and won't I be glad to see the painting when I wake up?"

After the shower, there she was in his bed, fast asleep -- and not faking, either. Had she been sneaking about awake all the time he had worked? Well, she was daft, that's all. He got dressed and went out for the morning paper, two small cups of coffee, and to think.

He knew one thing: he had a good painting, and in almost no time at all. It might actually have taken 24 years, but somehow it hadn't.

And he knew another thing: he had this astonishing girl for a moment, for a moment's variation of herself, as she had put it.

After the coffee and the morning paper he still couldn't decide what to do about her that would be right -- not for her, not for him, but for everybody.

Intelligence told him to jump in bed with her, but he knew this was the intelligence of the animal he so frequently was and so infrequently regretted being.

Love told him to throw her out with a laugh, so she would be driven to the young and brilliant husband she was obliged more than ever now to find.

Mischief told him to jump in bed, throw her out, and tell her she was by far the cagiest, cleverest, most conniving little creature in the world.

She was turned to the wall when he eased his old hide into bed. Sleep-scented, she turned instantly, almost automatically, and held up an arm in greeting.

"You're daft."

"No purpose."

"No purpose is purpose enough."

"Love."

"Of course."

She sat up suddenly, and for a moment she was all fight, panic, confusion, and something close to terror. And then she saw him.

"Oh, it's you."

"My house, my bed, who did you expect it to be?"

"I wasn't thinking. What kept you so long?"

"The third egg, I guess."

"Do you like it?"

"Best of all. It put me to work. I finished the thing."

"You didn't."

"I did."

She leaped out of bed, ran into the workroom, and then squealed like a child in the presence of the unbelievable.

He took her his shirt, and tossed it to her.

"It is finished. And it is your best, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think it is."

"And it happened on account of me, didn't it?"

"Yes, I think it did."

"Then, what's this shirt for?"

"Well, it's cold out here."

"I get the job, don't I? Now."

"What job?"

"Personal secretary."

"What's that mean?"

"Me. I want you to paint me."

"When?"

"Right now. You've finished this one, now paint me."

"OK."

"Where do I stand?"

"On the rock, I think."

"OK."

"What color do you want to be?"

"The color I am, of course."

"You're already painted that color. Let me try a little light green on you."

"On me?"

"Yes, of course."

"I want to be painted on canvas, not on me. Ooh, that's cold. You're not going to paint me, actually, are you?"

"You, or back to bed."

"Do I get the job?"

Red wiped the green stripe off her arm, removed the finished painting from the easel, put a new canvas on it, and began to study the problem of getting something worth getting in something less than 24 years. When he had a pretty good idea what the problem was he squeezed a little red out of a tube, thinned it, smeared a new brush in it, and put the brush to the new canvas.

"Hold that now. Don't move. Yes, you get the job. Personal secretary, is that right?"

"Yes, of course, that's what I've been saying from the moment we met."

"Don't move. I think I know how this one can be made to be even better than the last one."

"You do?"

"Yes, and all you've got to do this time is stand there. No painted boiled eggs or anything like that. Just you, and your story -- very slowly, clearly, from the beginning."

"Well, you know I was born in Paris."

"Yes, that's right. Just talk like that. Keep going, and I'll work the thing out better than anybody else ever has."