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Updated: May 23, 2025
I recognized it from the bottle. It was elderberry wine that Metta's mother had put up. You have to be resourceful in a dry state. "I'm afraid you'll all think me frightfully Bohemian," said Metta proudly. Beryl Mae held her glass up to the light and said, "After all, does anything in life really matter?" She appeared very blase in all her desperate young beauty.
She's a neat and precise old lady with careful hair, but she looked scared as she let me in and led me to the door of Metta's studio, which is a big room at the back of the house. She didn't go in herself. She pulled it open and shut it on me quick, like it was a lion's den or something.
Well, she was about Metta's age, a short thirty, a kind of a slaty blonde with bobbed hair she'd been reached fore and aft and dressed mostly in a pale-blue smock and no stockings. Nothing but sandals. I could hardly get my eyes off her feet at first. Very few of our justly famous sex can afford to brave the public gaze without their stockings on. Vernabelle could ill afford it.
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