Free Noon at Tiffany's by Echo Heron Page A

She resumed her thought, her words slow and halting. “It worked quite well as you can see. I wasn’t sure at first how I would make the detail stand out, but—”
    “Louis, please!” Mitchell broke in. “I don’t understand how you could possibly entertain this preposterous notion for one moment. This thing would never sell to our class of clientele. It’s more fitting as a carnival novelty item.
    “Surely you don’t mean to indulge the fanciful artistic whims of a woman who hasn’t the first idea about designing for the higher classes of society, who, if I might be so bold as to remind you, are the cornerstone of our business.”
    With great care Tiffany placed the shade on the desk and fixed Mitchell with a cold stare, his jaw clenching spasmodically.
    Clara held her breath, incredulous that Mr. Mitchell seemed obliviousto the change in Mr. Tiffany’s eyes. Anyone who knew him even a little would know enough to heed their chilly warning.
    “Honestly, Louis,” Mitchell resumed, “your artistic judgment seems to be flagging. Perhaps we should ask your father’s opinion in this matter, before we go off on any frivolous tangents.”
    Tiffany jabbed a finger in his direction. “Be quiet! When I want an evaluation of a design, I’ll ask an artist, not a business manager.” He threw back his shoulders. “Simply because you’re related to my sister by marriage doesn’t entitle or qualify you to critique the work produced by my artists—that’s my business; money and accounting are yours.
    “This piece is neither hideous nor preposterous, and if you possessed one iota of artistic refinement, you’d know that. It is, as Miss Wolcott has so shrewdly pointed out, the most innovative thing in the factory.”
    He turned to her. “I’m taking you off the Last Supper window effective immediately. You shouldn’t be working on the mundane when you could be designing pieces like this. I’ll notify the men in the glass and metal department to provide you with whatever you need in the way of supplies.” He paused then added, “Within reason.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Tiffany. I promise I’ll—”
    “I want more sketches for these sorts of things. Make them exotic, but continue using nature as a stimulus and a harmonizer. When you have everything completed, you will meet with me so I can review what you’ve done. Is this agreeable?”
    “Yes, of course. I’ll design as many as you like. I’ll—”
    Tiffany stopped her with a look. “Miss Wolcott, understand that I’m granting you permission to complete this one sample. I’m not issuing any guarantees that we’ll put it into production. The lamp must earn the approval of all members of the management before we can consider such a thing. It will be scrutinized from every standpoint, artistic and …” he nodded to the still fuming Mr. Mitchell, “commercial.”
    He hooked the end of his cane over his arm and removed his pince-nez. “You may carry on with what you were about. Good afternoon.”
    Before she could reply, they were gone; Louis Tiffany in a blaze of unassailable importance, and Pringle Mitchell in an evil temper. She plunked herself down on the windowsill, scarcely believing her luck. Of course, Mr. Mitchell would increase his efforts to sabotage her work, butfor now she couldn’t have planned a more successful introduction of her lamp design.
    She leaned over the sill, breathing in the chill air of the early evening. Her eye was caught by a streak of orange above the setting sun. Taking out her notebook she began sketching ideas for lampshades as quickly as they popped into her head. She was working on her third rendering of a large goldfish entwined in pond lilies when a soft knock signaled the arrival of Mr. Driscoll.
    Lenox Hill
    September 26, 1889
    Dined with H.O. Havemeyer at the club. My visit to Emile Galle’s glass factory this summer impressed him, for he has commissioned me to decorate his home. He is a slippery bastard. I’ll