would arrive when the situation would change. Indeed, the two Filipinos had already drifted away from the group. With a swift sideways movement of the rag the painter obliterated the dancer's legs from the knees down, even a section of the palm leaves around them. The boy's face reflected the gesture. His attention deepened while the painter was drawing in the outlines again. The boy was so evidently absorbed that the painter was able to relax and to work more slowly. His brush crept over the glass and he appeared insolently at ease.

But it was impossible to compete with the rain, which began to fall imperceptibly at first, then in larger drops that smacked on the pavement. Soon one could hear the rustle of it above the noise of the busses. On the windshields of passing cars the wipers twitched back and forth. The lines running to the corners of the painter's mouth were deeper; once his hand, become suddenly less rigorous, allowed the brush to deviate; he had to clean away the color and begin again. The boy glanced around and saw that he was almost the only one left now among the spectators. All had gone except the Mexican, who had crossed the sidewalk to the curb and was about to wander away. The rain brought back the street and the buildings, the whisper and drip-drip of the rain restored the aimless day, the damp on his face recalled him to himself. He stepped away from the window as far as the curb and loitered near the Mexican. Then he walked along the street toward the north, because the rain would be behind him, and he drew closer to the shop fronts, which really gave no shelter.

The painter watched him go-his red shirt and his blond hair. He saw him. reach the corner and linger, again undecided. He watched him cross the street and drift on. Then he lost sight of him and did not see him again until he was so far away (just a red splotch in the rainy dullness) that seeing him was hardly worth the trouble. The melancholy of the rain filled the bar window. Behind the plate glass, his brush dangling, he studied the figure of the dancer. Suddenly, in a raging upward rush from the depths of lifelong defeat, desire struck him to blot her out with an angry sweep of his arm, to wipe every trace of her from the windowpane. But the moment passed. Accustomed to disappointment (even to resignation), he plunged a brush into color and resumed his painting.

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