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 that she wasn't experienced as a woman, "you have to know about everything like that, in addition to technique, to be an artist?"

"I would not describe such knowledge as knowing everything, but an artist must acquire and develop an extra vision to make visible what others do not see."

"Like your painter friend taking another look at New York, I suppose," she said sulkily.

"Something like that, but there must be talent to communicate what is seen."

On the dim stage, before the crew came to set the first scene, Lucy was practicing. The harder she worked the angrier she became at Figente. A lot he knew about success. She was almost sixteen, already a première danseuse, and what was he—a fat old society Queen who was important only because rich and in the Social Register. He didn't have to work for anything. She ought to tell him all the things she knew. Then he'd think she was an artist. Some joke. Clem, Carly, those girls in the Crofter Hotel and their Madam, Horta, and, for heaven's sake, Miss Shaver way back in school in Denver. What did he think she was, a kid! Sometimes he sounded like Vida. And that boy, Paul Vermillion, he treated like something special. And some old French singer.

"Pussy," Mae chided, "you've practiced too much, let me give you an alcohol rub before makeup. I have a surprise for you—Miss Klemper is in New York, she's going to start an art dance school."

"Oh, she is?" yawned Lucy, relaxing under the soothing rub. She had heard enough about art for one day. "I did twenty-eight fouettés today. Not bad. Let's go shopping tomorrow. I'd like a black satin evening dress, I'm tired of all those kid colors."

Ilona Klemper had arrived in New York belatedly but comfortably cushioned with a legacy from an aunt. Her father had protested her plan to open a dance school in New York, still hopeful the legacy might lure a husband. Mrs. Klemper had sided with Ilona, deciding that since not even the publicity of being a putter-on of dance acts in the movie theatre had attracted any Denver men her now twenty-eight-year-old daughter couldn't do worse in New York. What Ilona did not confide to her mother was an urge to exhibit to the world what she felt was an extraordinary attunement to the art 186