Tiffany Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’m smelling?”
    She nodded. “You are.”
    “Did you make it?”
    “I did. It’s not quite ready, though. It’s only just now been put on the stove.”
    Studying her, his face slowly sobered. “You’re a very good daughter to have done that, especially today.”
    She looked down and took a step back. “Papa, I—”
    “Come, you two,” Mother said, surging forward. “It’s a good thing I had soup on the stove, for Mrs. Cutting didn’t leave until just before you got home, darling. So sit down and, Flossie, you come with me.”
    Papa grabbed Flossie’s hand, stopping her. “Not tonight, Mother. Tonight Flossie will sit at the table with me. No bringing in food and no scrubbing of dishes for my moppet. I have need of her at the table with me.”
    Flossie gently disengaged herself. “Don’t be silly, Papa. Mother needs some help. I’ll only be a minute.”
    He put on a pout, but took his chair as she knew he would.
    In the kitchen, Mother grabbed some applesauce that had been chilling on the windowsill. “Slice up some bread and, for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything about Mr. Tiffany’s offer.”
    Instead of answering, Flossie concentrated on her task, and within a few minutes all was on the table. Papa said grace, then kept them entertained with anecdotes about the men who’d visited his shop. When any lulls in the conversation occurred, Mother quickly filled in the silences.
    If Papa noticed Flossie’s reticence, he must have attributed it to melancholy over leaving the design school. Finally, she and Mother took the plates from the table and returned with his orange marmalade pudding.
    Despite Mother’s insistence on discretion, Flossie screwed up her courage. “Mr. Louis Comfort Tiffany came to the studio today.”
    Mother gave her a sharp look.
    “Did he?” Papa asked. “Don’t tell me he was a guest instructor?”
    “No, he just came by to examine the students’ work.”
    “Did he see yours?”
    “He did.”
    Leaning back in his chair, Papa wiped a hand on the napkin tucked into his neck, a look of pride touching his face. “And what did he think?”
    “He said I had a good eye for shadows and highlights.”
    Papa’s eyebrows crinkled a bit. “That’s it?”
    “That’s what we were working on today, the underpainting.”
    “Ah.” His expression smoothed. “Did he see your Woman at the Seashore painting?”
    She shook her head. “No, I brought that painting home day before yesterday. I’ve been bringing a little bit home each day so I wouldn’t have so much to carry at the very end.”
    He placed his hand against the table, palm up. She slipped hers into it.
    “I’m sorry you had to quit, moppet. It won’t be forever. And it isn’t as if you earn any diploma or anything. They don’t even have a set curriculum.”
    “I know, but every day I miss, I fall behind.”
    “You’realready so accomplished.”
    “I want to be more than accomplished. I want to have my paintings hanging in a museum.”
    Squeezing her hand, he gave her a placating smile. “All the great artists are men, my dear. That’s just the way things are. The sooner you accept that, the better. Yet another reason to take a break from the design school. I don’t know if they’re the ones putting these ideas into your head or if it is some half-formed aspiration thrilling upon your nerves that is to blame, but you must stop for a minute and consider how very comfortable your life is.”
    She removed her hand from his.
    He scraped the inside of his pudding cup, the glass clinking with each stroke of his spoon. “You certainly have more diversion than I do, as you look after our household, go to afternoon teas, and consider the complicated problems in women’s fashion.” He took his final bite of pudding. “No, only someone content with life could have as excellent an appetite as you and could sleep eight hours every night. You will get married before you know it and will find the rearing of your