Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/82

 dantly than any other paintings had succeeded in doing since she had first seen the work of Chagall. There was a breadth of design, a sombre humour, a disquieting power of observation tinged with fancy, in these representations of goats lying in tortured streets, these lusty rabbis making merry with wine on Simchath Torah, these withering crones knitting in the picturesque surroundings created by a perfect bad taste, which captured and held her complete attention, and which compelled the expression, to herself at any rate, of her increasingly gratified admiration. They were, she was happy to admit, possessing them, as good as anything of the kind could ever be. . ..

Her eyes did not stray from the canvases for some time. At last, however, she turned to the table beside her and idly sought the morning post. There was, certainly, no letter from Fannie. Since she had married Manfred Cohen, Mrs. Lorillard's mother's penchant for wandering had increased. She and her husband, as a matter of fact, were at present enjoying a leisurely journey around the world. Postcards occasionally arrived from Benares or Luxor or Pekin, but they had no more to announce than, I hope you are as happy as I am, or some kindred sentiment. Today there was not even a postcard. To offset this lack there was a letter from Edith Dale, who seemed content to remain indefinitely in the rambling, Spanish house she had built for herself on a plateau in New