“Sorry,” murmured Philip, working at his deep strokes that involved his whole arm—a thin arm I noticed, the elbow sharp under a checked shirt that I could see through a hole in his threadbare chestnut woolen jersey. “Be done in a jiffy . . .”

I sat down gingerly beside Bridie and listened to the schuss of the charcoal across the paper.

“We’re not to mind him,” said Bridie. “We can talk. It’s all supposed to be natural, you see, as if he’s caught me doing chores. That’s why I’m in my rubber gloves. I am in essence a housewife, you see.”

We had kept to such sad subjects, Bridie and I, up to now, that this peppery humor was a delightful discovery.

“Wait, Mother,” said the artist, who had put down his charcoal on the table and was now swiftly smearing the paper with his fingers. “God, they’re tremendous to draw.”

“You were wearing these gloves when I met you,” I said, grinning.

“So I was.”

She was a good sitter. Probably used to it. Philip glanced up at her, a practical, appraising gaze, and down at his paper again. His face was thin, his jaw angular. Nose, quite beaky. Freckled. Green in his eyes like his mother, but more flecks of hazel. He moved his mouth as he drew, small tweaks of his thin lips. And his hair bounced away from his parting in curls. Much too long, I felt, but then longer hair was the rage now, among these young bohemian types. It actually brushed his collar.

Finally he stopped, frowned with his head on one side, and turned the board around. There was Bridie, her compact, comfortable body, her brisk short graying hair, her blouse collar buttoned straightly just above the neckline of her sweater. The gloves, however, were enormous, twice normal size, clutching each other, deep folds in the fingers and a dull wet rubbery sheen. They were funny, incongruous, but she was in on the joke. Her eyes were crinkled, perspicacious, knowing only too well what the artist was up to.

“Phil!” His mother gave a cry of appreciation. “It’s marvelous, dear. Will you look at those gloves! Am I working on the trawlers?” She playfully buffed his arm.

I was captivated. “They’ve got a life of their own!”

“Not a Housewife?” Philip suggested, as a title.

“No,” his mother said. “The Housewife. Let the viewer work it out.” She pulled the gloves off and got to her feet. “Now then. I’m up to the shop for a couple of ounces of tea and a few odds and ends.”