Browne explained that she was going to take up some sort of work in Chicago. "She's had enough of the Old World for the present."
As he let us into the hall of his West Side apartment, I caught a momentary glimpse of a young woman seated in the living room, busily sewing. She rose calmly, though a little surprised at our invasion, and with her rising, spools of thread and bits of cloth fell away from her with comic effect, although her expression remained loftily serene.
"Hello, sister Zuhl," called Browne. "Here is an old-time friend of yours."
As she greeted me with entire self-possession I hardly recognized her relationship to the pale, self-possessed art-student, with whom I had held unprofitable argument some four years before. She was much more mature and in better health than when I last saw her. She carried herself with dignity, and her gown, graceful of line and rich in color, fitted her beautifully.
With no allusion to our former differences she was kind enough to say that she had been a delighted reader of my stories in the magazines, and that she approved of America. "I've come back to stay," she said, and we all applauded her statement.
As the evening deepened I perceived that her long stay in England and in France had done a great deal for Zulime Taft. She was not only well informed in art matters, she conversed easily and tactfully, and her accent was refined without being affected. As we settled into our seats around the dinner table, I was glad to find her opposite me.
She had met many interesting and distinguished people, both in London and on the Continent, and she brought to our little circle that night the latest word in French art. Indeed, her comment was so entertaining, and so valuable, that I was quite converted to her brother's judgment concerning her term of exile: "Whether you go on with your sculpture or not," he said, "those four years of Europe have done more for you than a college course."
She represented everything antithetic to the trail and the farm. She knew little of New England and nothing of the Mountain West. In many ways she was entirely alien to my life and yet—or rather because of that—she interested me. Filled with theories concerning art—enthusiasms with which the "American Colony" in Paris was aflame, she stated them clearly, forcibly and with humor. Her temper in argument was admirable and no man had occasion to talk down at her—as Browne, who was a good deal of a conservative, openly acknowledged.
She was all for "technique," it appeared. "What America needs more than subject is skill, knowledge of how to paint," she declared. "Anything can be made beautiful by the artist's brush."
At the close of a most delightful evening Fuller and I took our departure together, and we were hardly out of the door before he began to express open, almost unrestrained admiration of Zulime Taft. "She's a very remarkable girl," he said. "She will prove a most valuable addition to our circle."