“I am not interested in passé American painters,” he said. “I am sorry he died, but it was no great loss to the world of art.”

“They are saying that he was killed for insulting Jews. Have you heard any rumors about that? Do you attend the synagogue?”

He shrugged. “I don’t practice my religion. What did Karl Marx say: ‘Religion is the opium of the people?’ We Jews have followed the same god for thousands of years and look where it’s got us—persecution and no place to call home. Art and beauty—those are my religions. At least they mean something. But I’m stuck with my race. If a Jew killed this Bryce fellow, then I expect he deserved it. Me, I never met the man, so I can’t really pass an opinion.” Then his face lit up. “Ah, good. They’re putting out the hot canapés.” And he was gone.

I stood close to the door until I spotted Willie Walcott’s blond curls. He too had closed in on the food table. I wondered how many of the impoverished artists here only came for the food. No, that was doing them an injustice. With people like the frightening Monsieur Vollard here as well as the Steins there was always some hope of selling a painting. I forced my way through the crowd, making for Willie. He moved away from the food table at that moment so that we came upon each other more rapidly than I had anticipated.

“Oh, hello there,” he said. “You’re Gussie’s Irishwoman, aren’t you?”

“You make me sound like the lady who comes to scrub the floors or iron the sheets.”

He blushed at this, his fair skin turning bright red. “Oh, jeepers, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No offense taken.” I smiled.

“So did you finally discover where Cousin Gussie and her friend had popped off to?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.”

“Oh, that’s good.” He didn’t ask any more questions and I gathered that he wasn’t really interested in what had happened to his cousin. I was tempted to add that she had fallen down a mine shaft or been abducted by white slavers. He probably would have responded, “That’s good.” So a rather self-absorbed young man.

“I think we’re in danger of being trampled if we stand here,” I said. I noticed he was carrying a plate piled with vol-au-vents, oysters, cheeses in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other. “Here, let me take your glass before you find the contents of your plate plastered to your front.”

He grinned, handed me the glass, then followed me to a less crowded corner. “It is extra full tonight, isn’t it?” he said. “Word got around that Vollard was coming and everyone wants to get into his good books.”

“Why is that?”

“His exhibition is the one that counts.”