He had never had too much, poor devil, of his own. I've seen the
little fellow swaggering about at her parties, with his sharp, frayed
face, looking fine and fastidious, safeguarding himself with twinklings
and gestures that gave the dear woman away. I've seen him, in goggles
and a magnificent fur-lined coat, shouting to her chauffeur, giving
counter orders to her own, while she sat snuggling up in the corner of
the car, smiling at his mastery.
It went on till poor Lena was forty-nine. Then, as she said, she began
to "shake in her shoes." I told her it didn't matter so long as she
didn't let him see her shaking. That depressed her, because she knew
she couldn't hide it; there was nothing secret in her nature; she had
always let "them" see. And they were bothering her--"the others"--more
than "a bit." She was jealous of every one of them, of any woman he
said more than five words to. Jealous of the models, first of all,
before she found out that they didn't matter; he was so used to them.
She would stick there, in his studio, while they sat, until one day he
got furious and turned her out of it.
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