The House of Torchy | Page 4

of 'em. Do I show up that way to her? I doubt it. Now and then, though, I catch her watchin' me sort of puzzled.
So there's nothing steady goin' or settled about us yet, thanks be. Home ain't a place to yawn in. Not ours. We don't get all our excitement out of changin' the furniture round, either. Oh, sure, we do that, too. You know, we're startin' in with a ready-made home--a studio apartment that Mr. Robert picked up for me at a bargain, all furnished.
He was a near-artist, if you remember, this Waddy Crane party, who'd had a bale of coupon-bearin' certificates willed to him, and what was a van-load of furniture more or less to him? Course, I'm no judge of such junk, but Vee seems to think we've got something swell.
"Just look at this noble old davenport, will you!" says she. "Isn't it a beauty? And that highboy! Real old San Domingo mahogany that is, with perfectly lovely crotch veneer in the panels. See?"
"Uh-huh," says I.
"And this four-poster with the pineapple tops and the canopy," she goes on. "Pure Colonial, a hundred years old."
"Eh?" says I, gazin' at it doubtful. "Course, I was lookin' for second-hand stuff, but I don't think he ought to work off anything that ancient on me, do you?"
"Silly!" says Vee. "It's a gem, and the older the better."
"We'll need some new rugs, won't we," says I, "in place of some of these faded things?"
"Faded!" says Vee. "Why, those are Bokharas. I will say for Mr. Crane that he has good taste. This is furnished so much better than most studios--nothing useless, no mixing of periods."
"Oh, when I go out after a home," says I, "I'm some grand little shopper."
"Pooh!" says Vee. "Who couldn't do it the way you did? Why, the place looks as if he'd just taken his hat and walked out. There are even cigars in the humidor. And his easel and paints and brushes! Do you know what I'm going to do, Torchy?"
"Put pink and green stripes around the cigars, I expect," says I.
"Smarty!" says she. "I'm going to paint pictures."
"Why not?" says I. "There's no law against it, and here you got all the tools."
"You know I used to try it a little," says she. "I took quite a lot of lessons."
"Then go to it," says I. "I'll get a yearly rate from a pressing club to keep the spots off me. I'll bet you could do swell pictures."
"I know!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I'll begin with a portrait of you. Let me try sketching in your head now."
That's the way Vee generally goes at things--with a rush. Say, she had me sittin' with my chin up and my arms draped in one position until I had a neck-ache that ran clear to my heels.
"Hal-lup!" says I, when both feet was sound asleep and my spine felt ossified. "Couldn't I put on a sub while I drew a long breath?"
At that she lets me off, and after a fifth-innin' stretch I'm called round to pass on the result.
"Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at what she's done to a perfectly good piece of stretched canvas.
"Well, what does it look like?" demands Vee.
"Why," says I, "I should call it sort of a cross between the Kaiser and Billy Sunday."
"Torchy!" says Vee. "I--I think you're just horrid!"
For a whole week she sticks to it industrious, jottin' down studies of various parts of my map while I'm eatin' breakfast, and workin' over 'em until I come back from the office in the afternoon. Did I throw out any more comic cracks? Never a one--not even when the picture showed that my eyes toed in. All I did was pat her on the back and say she was a wonder. But say, I got so I dreaded to look at the thing.
"You know your hair isn't really red," says Vee; "it--it's such an odd shade."
"Sort of triple pink, eh?" says I.
She squeezes out some more paints, stirs 'em vigorous, and makes another stab. This time she gets a bilious lavender with streaks of fire-box red in it.
"Bother!" says she, chuckin' away the brushes. "What's the use pretending I'm an artist when I'm not? Look at that hideous mess! It's too awful for words. Take away that fire-screen, will you, Torchy?"
And, with the help of a few matches and a sportin' extra, we made quite a cheerful little blaze in the coal grate.
"There!" says Vee, as we watches the bonfire. "So that's over. And it's rather a relief to find out that I haven't got to be a lady artist, after all. What is more, I am positive I couldn't write a book. I'm afraid, Torchy, that I am a most every-day sort of person."
"Maybe," says I, "you're one of the scarce ones