18
T
he
first leaves of the maples were dropping and lying ochre-colored on the grass outside Benton’s studio. Inside, Tregan watched the girl. It was silly, he thought; an inane illogicality of life that kept bringing them together.
The place hummed with talk and the pictures blazed from the walls. It was the same Sunday afternoon talk. There were the same pictures. Or there was a new picture, Benton was saying. He was moving about with imperceptibly quick motions.
“My new Kadar Bela—yes, yes! Marvellous, what? It’s called The Ecstatic Mule! Yes, yes! Of course Perfect title!”
Benton had such a private joke on life. He kidded it, talking in exclamation points, making up sublimely ridiculous names for the gay irresponsibility of his modern canvases.
The house danced to Benton’s talk
