But such a loft! Such a quaint, delicious, simple, picturesque
apotheosis of a loft! A loft with the rough bricks whitewashed and the
heavy rafters painted red; a loft with big, plain tables and a bare
floor and an only slightly partitioned-off kitchenette where the
hungry could descry piles of sandwiches and many coffee cups. And
there in the middle of the loft was the Samovar itself, a really
splendid affair, and one actually not for decorative purposes only,
but for use. I had always thought samovars were for the ornamentation
either of houses or foreign-atmosphere novels. But you could use this
thing. I saw people go and get glasses-full of tea out of it.
Under the smoke-dimmed lights were curious, eager, interesting faces:
a pale little person with red hair I recognised instantly as an
actress whom I had just seen at the Provincetown Players--a Village
Theatrical Company--in a tense and terribly tragic role. Beyond her
was a white-haired man with keen eyes--a distinguished writer and
socialist. A shabby poet announced to the sympathetic that he had sold
something after two years of work.
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