“Very well. Another time, perhaps. I’ll get that book.”
She brought down to him a thick, much-thumbed volume.
“Are you sure it is theological?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said. “It’s by the Rev. Mr. Rabelais. Well, bring it back when you’re finished and I’ll lend you Leaves of Grass. Good night, Ned.”
She held out a small hand; he found it warm.
“Remember,” she said, pressing his hand, “about my offer. Ten dollars an hour. I usually paint at night.”
Her eyes were like emeralds held before lighted candles.
Miss Venable met Edwin in the hall of his house. She was a lady whose face appeared to have been pickled, and she was pessimistic by nature and experience. Her faith in human nature had been erased by a life of running a rooming house; her roomers were always using her gas to terminate their lives. Briefly she informed Edwin that his rent was overdue. She would trouble him, etc. Always the soul of frankness, Edwin told her he had no money, but that he would be in funds in a day or two. He even tried to laugh a little to show her how unwarranted her fears about his solvency were. Under her freezing eyes and skeptic nose the laugh was hollow on both ends and cracked in the middle.
“I want ten dollars,” she said, “not promises. I must have my money by midnight or . . .”
“Or?”