“You’d like this place.... And it’s dirt cheap.”
“How much?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. Twelve dollars.”
“Twelve dollars a what?”
“A month!”
“Twelve dollars a month?” Why, his hall bedroom over on Canal street had cost more than that....
“Yes, and look at the space. It’s really a find. If you don’t mind living in a kind of bohemian way. I’m bohemian enough, God knows, but when I get to painting I let my fire go out.”
“I didn’t know,” said Felix, “that there were such places as this in Chicago.”
“There aren’t. There’s just these. Here and around the corner. They were put up for shops at the time of the World’s Fair—just temporary structures—and they’ve never bothered to tear ’em down. There’s been a bunch of artists living here ever since; a place like this for twelve dollars is a godsend to an artist. If this was spring, it wouldn’t be for rent—there’d be a dozen after it. You’re in luck.” She resumed her neglected cigarette to keep it from going out. “Well, what do you say? Want my stove?”
“I’ll—have to see my wife about it,” said Felix. “She’s waiting for me over in the Park.” No, Rose-Ann would not like it, but—