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an unusual arrangement among artistic people, that alliances be discreet, particularly when there are children involved, over whom aspersions must not be cast.”
    “Children? Aspersions? How dare you, Lavinia—”
    She held up a thin hand in caution. “I will tell you now that I counseled Heinrich, most seriously, never to tell you and wound you so, and to demand discretion of Dora, if she loved him, discretion that would have preserved your home and even your marriage. He might simply have taken the job as foreman at Hallo, maintained a room in Chicago for the sake of appearances, satisfied his passion for Dora, which would have cooled in time, I assure you, and remained a husband and father finally able to provide for his family; be the artist he was and yet allay your cares, allow you time to do your own work. That he should even think of dragginghis children through such a scandal! No, I did not agree! But Dora Hulck is working-class Dutch, and childless, and older than Heinrich, remember; she divorced a wealthy, disagreeable man, and she wants my son to marry her.”
    Asta steeled herself; she was determined not to weep. “I thought you would have taken the children, and gone with them.”
    Lavinia shook her head, and reached for Asta’s hand. “I could not live with Dora Hulck, nor would she allow my presence. She is shrewd, but not the right sort of influence for the children, nor has she any interest in them. Oh, dear Asta. She requires his genius and is blindly, passionately in love with him, but she hasn’t the breeding or education for the discretion that might have made it all possible.”
    Asta pulled away and spoke in an angry whisper; she wanted to shout and throw the tea against the wall. “Lavinia, you are wicked, wicked, to think I would live in a shell of a marriage while my husband opens Hallo Shops in New York and Boston—”
    “Dora will not have children; she is obviously barren. Asta, you had only to be patient for a year, five years . . . you have every advantage to press. Heinrich’s love for these children is limitless; he’s devoted to them. You must welcome and encourage his devotion, as Dora will not—”
    “Stop it! Stop it!”
    She would not. “And to you, Asta. He’s devoted to you, their mother who loves them, and never deserved the wavering of his affections.”
    “Then why? Why?” Emotion choked her, for she knew why, and surmised that Lavinia did not; Heinrich had allowed them, at least, the privacy of their intimate relations.
    Lavinia leaned forward into the small nimbus of light and spoke fiercely, insistently. “We do not get what we deserve! Never! If we did, the world would be just! We get what we work for, or what we’re born to, if fortune does not intervene to take it from us! Talent grows if it is exercised. And passion, like hunger and thirst, demands satisfaction.”
    “That is certainly your son’s assertion!” Asta could not stop herself,though the wind rattling the windowpanes seemed to mock her. “And fidelity, Lavinia? Sacred vows taken before God?”
    Lavinia sat back, enveloped in shadow. “Yes, I know you are religious. But, my dear, you are a mature woman. Surely you have wanted, at some time, something or someone forbidden you, something your soul recognizes as its own true counterpart, for whatever reason, or reasons unknown to you.”
    Asta met her eyes. “I loved Heinrich!”
    “And he loved you. But he denied himself in support of you and the children. You met as artists, did you not?”
    “Oh, reproach me because he works at a career—”
    “It is not a career, Asta. It is a job, but he is not resentful. He accepts, absolutely, his responsibilities. And he admires and respects and loves you. I can assure you that he reproaches himself bitterly over Dora, oh, so bitterly—”
    “As I reproach you, Lavinia! For not telling him never to see her again!”
    Lavinia leaned forward to grasp Asta’s hand. “My dear Asta, listen to me.