“No. There’s no bath.”
“Very well; I can do without for once.”
Mendel ran round to Golda and told her of the wonderful man who was in his studio, and he described the adventure of the previous evening. Golda looked scared and said:—
“What next? What next? Good people sleep in their own beds.”
“But this man is an artist and he talks like a book.”
“Talk is easy,” said Golda. “But it takes years to make a friend.”
However, when Logan was brought to her she was polite to him and rather shy. He told her that fame was coming to her son faster than the wind.
“Too fast,” said she.
“It can never come too fast,” replied Logan. “The thirst for fame is a curse to an artist. Let it be satisfied and he is free for his work. I know, for I was very famous in my own town. I sickened of it and ran away. . . . I must congratulate you on letting your son follow his bent. I had to quarrel with my own people to get my way. I haven’t seen them since I was fourteen.”
“Not your mother?” said Golda, greatly upset.