Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1927-08-04

mare. Miss Wallace stayed with Nan
but II didn't seem to make any diff
ference. She wouldn't have minded
being alone in the apartment. Tom
was gone. She wasn't afraid or nerv
Gus or anything like that.
He was so beautiful in death, but
he wasn't there. She could see him
of course. as he had been.
She could see him at his easel push.
ing his long, nervous fingers through
his thick hair. She could remember,
too, that she had thought Of him as
not concentrating on his work. To
| think that she could criticize him
! even in her thoughts. His work be-
| longed to him. Suppose he weren't as
successful as Malcolm st. Clair or
some Of the others. What difference
| did money make?
DIR. F'arr had told Miss Wallace to
| give her a sedative, which she duti.
| fully took. But she couldn't sleep.
| Her brain just went on and on. SO
many sweet things to remember about
| Tom. His kindness, his consideration.
| his boyishness
She would doze and then wake up
with a start 1t couldn't be possible
that Tom was dead. When she said
those words over in her mind she
wanted to scream aloud. She didn't
care who heard, either.
Miss Wallace, professional and calm,
but really sympathetic, came at last.
Nan felt needle prick in her arm,
and then gradually she doZed. Lovely
to be able to sleep, to forget all about
life and the things it demanded; lovely
TO remember those days at Vineyard
Haven on the beach.
Just before sleep muff1ed her she re-
membered one thing.
Strange that she had met Tom at
the same time she had met Martin
Lee. Strange, strange!
She was going to face life with
stoicism. That was her one thought
these days. although she. was afraid
afraid. She wasn't very well. Com
plicationS that she had never dreamed
of came into her life and bewidered
her. She had never before known
how important it was to have money.
After all her expenses were paid she
had absolutely nothing. She would
have to start posing again immedi-
ately, and yet she felt so strangely
weak. Her knees seemed to shake
under her.
One day in March she posed for
Malcolm st. Clair, nerving herself up
to doing it by calling herself a coward.
none too strong. AS she emerged
from the subway the wind stung her
legs in their thin silk stockings and
almost seemed to sap her breath. She
wondered If she could make the two
long blocks.
She rested in the lobby for a few
moments before she took the elevator
upstairs. She was rather short Of
breath these days, and the wind, cold
and nipping, had taken her strength.
But when she arrived at Malcolm
ST. Glars apartment she felt better.
She even laughed and joked as she
took off her coat and hat.
The pose was difficult. She might
have expected that. It was of a
woman just discovering the corpse of
her murdered husband, and she had to
bend over awkwardly.
AS he worked Malcolm kept think.
ing to himself. He thought Of Mans
exquisite beauty and what a Joy 1t
was to work from her. He thought
OF the stories he had heard about her
marriage to Tom Elliott. He knew
Elliott in a vague way. The man had
had talent. but had never developed It.
In his artists way he marveled at
the purity Of Mans face. How easy
it was to work from her. She posed
well, too, but she didn't look strong.
She was holding the pose well, how
ever, and it wasn't an easy one.
He decided to say nothing about
her recent bereavement. 1t might up
set her, and what good would it do?
After all, the relations between an
artist and a model should be purely
professional.
Absent-mindedly he daubed out more
paint on his palette. began mixing
absorbedly, and at that moment Nan
crumpled on the floor.
Malcolm wasn't too much disturbed.
He had had models faint before. But
as he bent over Nan there was some
thing almost tragic in the outline of
her little white face. She wasn't a
strong girl at all, he could see that.
But what a wonderful model. Any
one who couldn't get inspiration out
OF her face must certainly be a dumb.
bell. The bone formation Of her face
was perfect. But there was no doubt
OF the fact that she wasn't we'll.
fCopyright. 1927
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