She wanted to be honest with herself—she had always prided herself on being honest, even ruthless, with herself if not with others. What she felt for Sheila Trask was more than simple affection: it had to do with admiration, awe, even—perhaps—envy. (Though envy was not a very attractive impulse. One might more readily confess being filled with sheer hatred, Monica thought, than with envy.) But she could see that Sheila Trask differed significantly from herself and from anyone with whom she had ever been in close contact.

It set her teeth on edge, as Sheila so frequently said, to enter that studio in the morning. It was sheer hell and it was getting worse. She hated the mornings, she hated herself in the mornings, wound up so tight, every muscle quivering, her heartbeat unnaturally rapid, as if she were a child, as if she’d never proved herself at anything! . . . every movement in question, every brush stroke, every decision. Monica asked if Morton Flaxman had been sympathetic with her, if his counsel had helped, and Sheila said, amused, somewhat irritated: “But of course he was the same way—most of the time he was much worse.”

She said, grinning, her eyes narrowing slyly: “Most of the time he was crazy and I knew enough to stay out of his way.”

She was envious, oh yes she was a little jealous, though she couldn’t have said why, could she have said why?—shaken for hours after a near-quarrel with Sheila, one rainy November Sunday, when she discovered the woman working in her drafty studio though she was sick with flu and obviously running a temperature. (In fact her appearance shocked Monica, who hadn’t seen her for several days. Eyes bloodshot, lips pale and slack, breasts swaying loose inside a thin cotton T-shirt. And that ravaged skin. And that smell—that rancid smell—of illness.)

Go to bed Monica advised, call a doctor, better yet let me drive you to a doctor—you have to take care of your health.

Sheila said contemptuously: “What’s called ‘health’ doesn’t interest me if nothing is accomplished.”

Monica said, with a sharpness that surprised her: “That’s a childish attitude. It’s a selfish attitude.”

She was slightly jealous, perhaps. But she hid it well.