"You'd not dodge him," said Ellen, almost as though speaking to herself, and his shame was gone. He'd not dodge Lew, she meant, because Lew had attained a power over him which Jay Rountree hated to acknowledge. Lew was become necessary to him; he was in no way necessary to Lew; it was humiliating to be in such a situation, but it was business to meet it and deal with it.
Ellen spun about quickly. This was not being impersonal with him—far from it!
"Lew Alban," she said. "will be harder to handle than Jello. . . . Sam Metten," she corrected quickly, "for the Slengels as well as for us."
"How?"
"He's not so simple. I know him, you see. He talks to me."
"Does he," said Jay.
"I don't like him," continued Ellen, without looking about but, under his eyes, she flushed hot; and she was relieved when he said: "I've moved. Do you know?"
"I didn't," said Ellen. She wanted to look up at him but she bent to her notebook. "Where?" she asked.
"I'm on East Pearson Street; in what, d'you suppose?"
"What?"
"Studio. You can get away with less room, less show and service and less rent, if you call it that."
"Does your wife paint?" asked Ellen. Then he told her:
"She's in the East. She went the other day. No, neither of us paints. The place hasn't a palette, or a smock. It just was a studio and now is diggings at lou'rent. Roof of my own, that's all."
