Francie Again by Emily Hahn Page A

course it was sweet of Ruy to accept her good intentions—and he did seem to think she had talent as well, otherwise he would never consent to introduce her to his precious school. (“Though he may be keen on me. That would explain it,” she admitted in her thoughts.) But about his promise there was an atmosphere of what might almost be called dedication.
    â€œIt needn’t matter all that much,” she reflected uneasily. “After all, Fontoura’s studio is only an art school, when all’s said and done. It’s not a church.”
    Her misgivings were not allayed on the important day of days when Ruy arrived to escort her to the studio. When Francie thanked him for his trouble as they started out, he said formally,
    â€œIt is nothing. My father was glad to give me the morning free. He sends his compliments to Miss Francesca.”
    â€œThat was very kind of him,” said Francie in rather faint tones.
    She was silent as they walked toward the train platform. Her portfolio had never seemed so large and clumsy. She would not permit Ruy to carry it, though he offered to. Looking timidly at him, she saw to her surprise that he was smiling in a quiet way.
    â€œYou are nervous,” he said at last, not asking a question but stating a fact. “I know what it is like, the first time. Never mind, Fontoura won’t hurt you.”
    Francie forced a laugh. “He might hurt my feelings, though,” she said.
    Ruy did not deny it. Her nervousness increased. She tried to concentrate on the glimpses of sea which she caught as the train rolled along. A fleet of fishing boats was coming in. She saw little russet sails like a flight of ducks, and then they were out of sight, cut off by a great urban block of raspberry-colored flats.
    â€œThe sky is blue,” she began to recite to herself, deliberately trying to forget her ordeal. “The ground is tan, with here and there a patch of tough vegetation. Olive trees, perhaps? The sky is blue; the sea is blue. The natives are good-looking people and the women walk with the straightest backs I have ever seen, and their full skirts are wonderfully graceful. Oh, dear, aren’t we there yet? The sky is blue—”
    â€œCourage,” said Ruy. They had arrived at their station. He pushed open the door and stepped out in the casual European manner Francie could never get used to, for she came of a people that always rushed in and out of trains. Still, she followed him as casually as she could manage.
    They were now in the outskirts of Lisbon, in a quarter that was less ancient than the squares and cathedrals Francie knew. They walked uphill along a wide thoroughfare, then turned off into a curving street, between stucco houses painted in a variety of soft colors—yellow, pastel blue and pink. The tints had weathered in the sun and looked, somehow, exactly right for the ground on which they stood.
    â€œThe Portuguese are the most amazing people, aren’t they?” asked Francie. “It’s as if they couldn’t go wrong on houses, or streets, or any kind of city planning. Look there now, down that side street. Those places were built at different times, I suppose, just any old way, and yet they couldn’t be righter. Or am I talking nonsense?”
    â€œNo, it is not nonsense,” said Ruy. “It is our particular genius which you have recognized.”
    The strange streets twisted in a most confusing manner, but the young people turned in at last to a small cobbled lane which ended at a door set in a brick wall.
    â€œIt was a garage,” explained Ruy, “and Fontoura discovered the possibilities accidentally. He was living in that house there, and happened to see that the light is not cut off from the garage roof.” He rang the bell as if he were putting a full stop to the sentence, all too soon for Francie, who gripped her portfolio in a last-minute panic.
    A servant answered the door, and went