A man's living voice said, 'What have we here? Mary Anne Boatright! Well! Is this a club?'
The torso was pulling on a loose white T-shirt, slightly ' ragged at the shoulder seams. It went strangely with the rich silk of the skirt and the skirt's gold-embroidered hem.
'This is important,' said Mrs. Boatright, 'or I wouldn't disturb you, Theo.'
'I should hope it is,' said the voice. 'It better be. Never mind. I'm tired. I just decided. Put your shirt on, Lavinia.'
'I didj already,' said the girl or woman on the couch
who was sitting there like a Imnpj now. She turned her
bare feet until they rested pigeon-toed, one over the other.
Her eyes were huge and dark and placid as a cow's.
Mr. Gibson tore his gaze away from her to see this man.
'Theodore Marsh,' said Mrs. Boatright formally, but rapidly. 'This is Mrs. Gibson, Miss Severson, Mr. Gibson, Mr. Townsend, Mr. Coffey.'
'You don't look like a club,' said the painter. 'What are you? I've surely seen several of you before, somewhere.'
He was tall and skinny as a scarecrow. He wore tweed trousers, a pink shirt, and a black vest. His hair was pure white and it looked as if it had never been brushed but remained in a state of nature, like fur. His face was wizened and shrewd, his hands knobby. He must have been seventy.
He was full of energy. He moved, flipperty-flop, all angles, beckoning them in. He had yellow teeth, all but three, which were too white to match the rest, and obviously false. His grin made one think of an ear of com peculiarly both white and golden. He certainly had not been poisoned.
'Did you find a bottle of olive oil?' Rosemary attacked in a rush.
'Not I. Sit,' he said. 'Explain.'
Mr. Gibson sat down, feeling weak and breathless. The nurse and the bus driver sat down, side by side. Paul remained standing, for his manners. His eyes avoided the sight of the model's bare feet.
Mrs. Boatright, standing, her corsets firm, told the painter the story succinctly and efficiently. Rosemary, by her side, punctuated all she said with wordless gestures of anxiety.
Theo Marsh subdued his energy long enough to listen quickly, somehow. He got the situation into his mind, whole and fast.
'Yes, I was on a bus. Took it in front of the public library late this morning. You the driver? I did not study your face.'
'Few do.' Lee shrugged.
'Can you help us?' interrupted Rosemary impatiently. 'Did you see a green paper bag, Mr. Marsh? Or did you see who took it?'
The artist took his gaze off the bus driver and put it upon Rosemary. He leaned his head sharply to the right
as if to see how she would look upside down. 'I may have seen it,' he said calmly. 'J see a lot. I'll tell you, in a minute. Let me get the pictures back.'
Mrs. Boatright took a throne. At least she deposited her weight upon a chair so regally that it might as well have been one.
'You, with the worries and the graceful backbone,' the painter said, 'sit down. And don't wiggle. I despise vviggling women. I must not be distracted, mind.'
Rosemary sat down in the only remaining place, on the couch beside the model. She sat . . . and her spine was graceful ... as still as a mouse.
(Mouse, thought Mr. Gibson. Oh, how have we come here, you and I, who surely meant no harm?)
Six of them, plus the model Lavinia, all stared solemnly at Theo Marsh. He enjoyed this. He didn't seat himself. He moved, fiippety-fiop, all elbows and angles, up and down.
'G-green,' stammered Mr. Gibson.
'Green?' the painter sneered. 'Look out the window.'
Mr. Gibson looked, blinked, said, 'Yes?'
'There are at least thirty-five different and distinct greens framed there. I know. I counted. I put them on canvas. So tell me, what color was the bag?'
'It was a kind of . . .' said Mr. Gibson feebly. '—well, greenish . . .'
'They have eyes and see not,' mourned the painter. 'All right.' He began to act like a machine gun, shooting words.
'Pine green?'
'No.'
'Yellow green? Chartreuse? You've heard of that?'
'No. It wasn't—'
'Grass green?'
