A thought came sudden from the outer world.
“Why,” she cried, standing up, “it’s Thanksgiving Day! No wonder Giulio did not come.”
She put away the sheets of her confessional.
“I must have a walk. Goodness! I nearly forgot. People are coming to tea!”
She had marketing to do. The stores would still be open in the morning. She trudged through the bright pink snow: she said to herself:
“I wonder if I am mad making these mad pictures. They are mad. They have no subjects or anything. Well, I don’t care. Supposing I am mad?...”
The pink snow danced lazy through blue air. The City was a great beast snoring with snout on the ground. She pondered.
“It sometimes seems to me things are not really half so clear and concise as we artists make them. I wonder if we would be more concise painting these misty moods....” She saw how fluent and filmy a thing was the snowing City. People passing were strokes of smudge across the snow.
“They aren’t really like people at all—noses and limbs and thoughts!”
But she was at her shop. She was buying chocolate éclairs: very clear things, these, with particular prices. Her inspiration melted in the sticky air. Cornelia had no fingers to grasp these luminous moments fleeting across her.