Stieglitz invites both Strands to the Lake that fall, but Paul is too busy to make the trip. Beck writes back, asking if perhaps she can come alone. “Tell her to come now,” I say. “The house is too full.” “She can stay in the inn down the road. Nicer that way.” I add, “Then I can see if I like her before she’s right underfoot.” The day after she arrives, we invite her to go swimming in the lake, for a row around the island, then up to the house for tea. She is giddy, bouncy, and constantly looking around, saying how lovely everything is, sighing—she seems slightly in love with the two of us. She tells me that when she and Paul stayed at Rosenfeld’s house earlier this summer I was everywhere with her. “How so?” “Your paintings. He told me Alfred finally let him buy a few this spring. Considered him worthy, I guess”—she gives a tentative smile—“and he has one room in his house that’s all you—your apples, your blue mountain, your canna lily. We were happy on that short trip—my Paul and I—he’s my only only, you know, and it was a perfect time for us.”
