“That? What the hell is that?” Sheila said, squinting. There was no date on the painting, no signature or initials. But, surely, it was her own work: and she supposed that Monica could have it if she really wanted it and if she didn’t go out of her way to say who had painted it. “Such a pretty landscape,” she said jeeringly, “—but wintry and craggy too: see that outcropping of rock? Almost as good as Andrew or Jamie Wyeth.”

Monica said defensively that she did think the painting was beautiful. And it was certainly worth a great deal of money, so she couldn’t accept it as a present. She had hoped Sheila might sell it to her. . . .

“For Christ’s sake,” Sheila said, snorting in amusement, “don’t take that tone with me. Please. I mean don’t. If you like it, and if you have the wall space, take it, take it and shut up, see if you can find a decent frame somewhere and I’ll frame it, the transaction will take four and a half minutes and that’s that. It isn’t really worth discussing.”

Monica repeated that she wanted to buy it. She hadn’t at all meant to angle to be given it: she was a professional woman just as Sheila was a professional woman. And it was an article of faith of hers that—

“I said don’t take that tone, please,” Sheila said, though less amused now, “—it’s abrasive, it’s pompous, it isn’t necessary. You found it and it’s yours.”

“But Sheila—”

“Otherwise I’ll rip it up: do you want me to rip it up?”

“I don’t think you’re being reasonable. I had wanted—”

“Look, it’s pointless to argue. I don’t argue. I’m busy at the moment and I don’t have time to argue and the main thing is—I’d actually be very happy to see the painting hanging in your house, if you really like it, if it really appeals to you,” Sheila said. “Here, it doesn’t exist. It has no value. But I suppose it could have another life of sorts with you.”

Monica’s senses were sharpened, her pulse beat quick, agitated, still combative. How bullying Sheila was!—how purely insufferable, in her self-conceit! But Monica backed down. She said, faltering: “But—are you sure? I mean— I hadn’t intended— It really is so beautiful—”

Sheila too relented, suddenly. She examined the slightly tattered watercolor from a distance of several feet, her head turned to the side as if she couldn’t force herself to consider it directly. “Well—you’d say it was ‘beautiful’? In your eyes it’s ‘beautiful’?” She stared, she screwed up her face, ran her tongue fiercely across her front teeth. “Jesus, I wish I cared about that kind of thing now. That beauty. That delicacy. I wish I could even see it.”