Here’s your coat, Mr. Wentworth.
Thank you. Thank you for the delicious tea, Silvia. If I weren’t leaving town so soon.... Good night.
Good night. The stairs are rather dark.... (He goes out)
Yes, I know, Joe. It’s discouraging....
Discouraging? It’s immoral! Oh, these smug people who have been taught what to admire! These unborn souls who want to shut us all up in the dark! I suppose he went away thinking I put myself up higher than Raphael. Who are we painting for? They don’t want it—wouldn’t take it for a gift. And here we are, a poor little group, standing amazed before the glory of the sun, and painting it—for the blind!
Some day, Joe....
Some day—yes, when the life has oozed out of all our bright canvasses, when only the “rules” are left. And we won’t be able to rise from our graves and curse them!
I guess I let you in for a hard time, Silvia. I wish sometimes I could really paint the kind of thing that goes with stupid people’s dining rooms. They with their Long Island Louvres!
If you did, Joe, I’d put it in the stove. Don’t think you are having all the fun of being a pioneer. It’s exciting to be within a mile of it!
Good girl. Ugh! Let’s go to Boudet’s and have dinner. I want to get the bad taste out of my mouth!
The living room in a small flat in Beekman Place. Two women, one of them in mourning, sit beside the remains of tea.
But Jean, where are you going, when you pack up here?
I’m not leaving here. I’m staying on.
Oh. But I thought that now ... you were talking about being free for your own work at last....
If I have any work to do, I can do it here. You don’t understand, quite. All these years I have been living from whirlpool to whirlpool, never settled, always deracine—the thought of getting accustomed to another place makes me shudder.