Erik was in the back room, cross-legged on a long table, sewing a vest. But he looked as though he were doing this eccentric thing to amuse himself.
“Hello. I wonder if you couldn't plan a sports-suit for me?” she said breathlessly.
He stared at her; he protested, “No, I won't! God! I'm not going to be a tailor with you!”
“Why, Erik!” she said, like a mildly shocked mother.
It occurred to her that she did not need a suit, and that the order might have been hard to explain to Kennicott.
He swung down from the table. “I want to show you something.” He rummaged in the roll-top desk on which Nat Hicks kept bills, buttons, calendars, buckles, thread-channeled wax, shotgun shells, samples of brocade for “fancy vests,” fishing-reels, pornographic post-cards, shreds of buckram lining. He pulled out a blurred sheet of Bristol board and anxiously gave it to her. It was a sketch for a frock. It was not well drawn; it was too finicking; the pillars in the background were grotesquely squat. But the frock had an original back, very low, with a central triangular section from the waist to a string of jet beads at the neck.
“It's stunning. But how it would shock Mrs. Clark!”
“Yes, wouldn't it!”
“You must let yourself go more when you're drawing.”
“Don't know if I can. I've started kind of late. But listen! What do you think I've done this two weeks? I've read almost clear through a Latin grammar, and about twenty pages of Caesar.”