On my desk I found a message from Gordon, asking me to come to the studio next day, which was a Sunday, for lunch.
I kept the appointment, walking all the way up. As I passed Bryant Park, I noticed that the leaves were becoming slightly yellow. It was evident that the summer was giving a hint of impending departure. I reached the big building, just before noon, knowing that I should be somewhat ahead of time, but glad to have a chat with Gordon.
"I know you've been dying to see that canvas," he told me. "That young woman's a wonder. A clever and intelligent woman's the one to really understand what a fellow's after and help him out. I really think she took some interest in the thing. If she isn't otherwise occupied when I return from Southampton, I might possibly make use of her for another week or two. And there's Spinelli, the sculptor, who has a commission for a big group of sirens, for a fountain. He was in here and looked at the picture. Asked about her, he did, but I told him I didn't think she'd pose that way."
"I should think not," I declared.
"You needn't get mad," he retorted. "I've been looking around to see if I could get her something to do. Come in the front room and light your pipe, if you want to. Windows are open. I'm expecting a couple of women in to lunch. Glad you came in early. Yumasa's juggling in the kitchenette; the chap's an artist, when it comes to playing tunes on a chafing-dish. Well, how does it strike you?"
The picture stood before me. It was practically finished. I sank down on the cushioned bench that ran beneath the broad window facing the north and stared at the canvas.
"Great Heavens, Gordon!" I exclaimed.
"It hits right out from the shoulder, doesn't it," he said. "Ever see anything much more alive than this?"
"She's going to lift her eyes from the baby," I answered. "She's going to indulge in that little half-timid and half-boastful look of the young mother challenging the whole world to say that her infant isn't perfection in flesh and blood!"
Gordon made no answer. He was standing before the canvas, his left arm crossed over his breast with the right elbow resting upon it and the square bluish chin in the grasp of long thin fingers.