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Show 222 young and round. Against the black hair they are incredibly white, arms a man could yearn for and dream of, arms to enfold him, arms as firm and as sinuous as love. And, seen only in the left armpit, a delicate thatch of hair, quite different from the coarse hair on the pub^is. Yet for all the change from bottom to top, it occurs with such subtle gradations that the figure is not divided, is of a piece, harmonious, and one sees a woman growing up into a girl, or a girl turning into a woman downward. I liked Aaron Miles, a dark man in his early thirties, black brow lowering upon heavy horn-rimmed glasses, his nose'too big for his face, a flange, his hair thick and kinky, standing too high on his head, and his skin scared by old acne. He might be intent upon himself and his work but he did not thrust himself upon others. If he did not much notice me, he did not threaten me either. Nor did John Tobin. I liked them both, I realized, and I was impressed by that painting, yet I could not wait to get out of that room. Tobin invited us all to dinner in celebration and we piled into his car and drove north to Rush Street and a place called Ricardo's. Tobin told us that Ricardo had named his daughter, or one of his daughers, Russia. Russia Ricardo. He made marvelous Italian food, and Tobin ordered wine, and it was a fine, jolly meal, though I felt mostly left out of it. Across the table from me was Kate, with Tobin on one side and Miles on the other, and every time I looked up at her and saw her turned to one side or the other, talking or more often listening to them, I felt even more left out. Tobin was short like me, getting stout, with a big nose and a very thin upper lip. He was clean shaven with gentle, sad eyes, and he sucked his Pipe and watched, not talking much, talking with humor when he did, and with a beautiful Boston accent. How could I help but like him, especially when he |