Found in the Street by Patricia Highsmith

a hand or a finger as if he wished to speak to him, but Jack had pretended not to see him. Imagine getting stuck at 6 in the morning in a track suit, having to listen to a lecture on human goodness, maybe, morals, as Elsie Tyler had said?
    He looked at Trews’ note again, and noticed a tiny “over” in the bottom corner of the page. The words on the back were in longhand:
    I know of another project that might interest you. Call me soon.
    The day was starting well! Jack went to his workroom and looked at his latest sketch for a painting. He was trying for a composition of balance, a look of floating tranquillity that he so admired in some of Braque’s abstracts, and he was working with pencil, eraser and color pencils. Was it good to try hard, he wondered, or was it fatal? Out of perhaps twenty-five paintings that Jack had done and kept, four or five really pleased him. Should he stick to drawing? Would he be asking himself the same question ten years from now, still trying to paint? Yes, probably.
    By the time Natalia got up, Jack had made fresh coffee and had set the kitchen table for a breakfast of croissants that he had picked up earlier. He showed Natalia the note from Trews.
    Natalia pronounced it “marvelous.” “I hope they do some advertising. That should be in the contract. What’s the price again?”
    â€œSomeone there said sixteen ninety-five. Too bad it’s a slender book. At that price.”
    â€œPeople pay for drawings,” Natalia said calmly, biting into a croissant. “I’ll tell Isabel—ask her to have a few of the books on a table in the gallery.—1 think she already offered.”
    Jack was in his workroom when Natalia parted the curtains to say she was leaving.
    â€œBack around six-thirty, I hope. I straightened up Amelia’s room a little. Might inspire Susanne to do some more. Gad, what an untidy little girl!” Natalia said, emphasizing the last two words.
    Jack laughed.
    A couple of minutes after the sound of the apartment door closing, Jack yielded to his impulse to call Joel MacPherson.
    Joel answered on the ninth ring, sounding breathless. “I was just going out shopping—had to open the door again.”
    â€œCan’t you send Terry out shopping?”
    â€œTerry’s not here. You think she lives with me?”
    â€œI don’t ask rude questions.”
    â€œThen cut out your in-sin-uendos,” Joel said.
    â€œI’m calling because—1 had a nice note from Trews. He likes my stuff. No changes.”
    â€œNo kidding! No changes! That means a contract. Thank you, Jack.”
    â€œShow you his note some time. He’s almost poetic about how much he likes ’em.—Go down and get your own mail.”
    Then all was quiet and Jack worked, oblivious of what the time might be. He was trying his colors, brown, pale green, dusty yellow, imagining them in oil. The yellow was an almond shape, floating. He propped the sketch up on the table, and stepped back to look at it.
    The doorbell sounded, briefly.
    â€œDammit,” Jack murmured. It could be kids playing tricks on a Saturday morning. He opened the apartment door, intending to go down to see who it was before he pushed the release button, and heard murmurs, then the soft but clear voice of Susanne, then Amelia’s. Jack hadn’t been expecting them back before late afternoon, and was a bit annoyed. He leaned over the hall rail, and when they were on the second floor, he called:
    â€œSomething the matter, Susanne?”
    â€œNo, Jack.—Amelia needs a coat.”
    It was getting cold out, Susanne reported. Amelia said she already had a cold, and Susanne told her she had not, and to stop exaggerating. Susanne had brought some lunch, something from her own house made by her mother, and asked Jack if he wanted to join them, and Jack declined.
    â€œWe’ll shut the kitchen door, Jack, so you won’t hear any noise. You