The pride of the artist stripped bare by his patroness, even.

As a last resort, Marcel Duchamp rode the subway north, alighting at 66th Street. Fastening the belt of his raincoat tighter, he walked quickly to the Arensbergs’ house (a journey he had made many times before). He knocked on the large oak door, and Louise answered wearing an elegant long white dress, with a blue silk scarf around her neck. She took a moment to survey Marcel on her doorstep in his filthy brown mackintosh, then flatly intoned ‘Marcel, how wonderful to see you. Please come in.’
Marcel followed Louise through the hallway, and into the drawing room where he took a seat close to the fireplace. Louise remained at the doorway: ‘Can I get you a drink? Walter is out of town, I’m afraid. Tea? Un café?’
‘Louise, I need help’
Louise released a small sigh, and then took her place opposite him, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on his face. That Gallic, chiselled countenance that she knew so well: Older than its years, yet handsome enough to charm. For his part, Marcel kept his gaze downcast, studying the intricate patterns of the Indian rug.
‘Marcel we already are helping you. How can we do more?’ She paused, suddenly enjoying the power that she held over him. ‘Perhaps if you were more forthcoming with your work? We haven’t had anything from you for so long. Walter believes that we may never see The Large Glass. I defend you, of course, but I wonder how long this can continue, when I have nothing from you?’
Marcel had not expected this attack. He lifted his head to meet her eyes: ‘But…the sketches. I showed you the sketches.’
‘Oui Marcel, but those were just ideas. If we are to continue this agreement, then we need more from you.’ In the silence that followed, an idea formed in Louise’s mind: ‘Ah! But let us not talk of work. It can be so lonely in this big house, all by myself. It is so good to have some company.’
Like a puppy that has been struck by its owner, Marcel looked uncomprehendingly at Louise.
‘Perhaps there is some way that I could help you,’ she drawled, ‘but of course, you would have to do something for me in return. No? Then I am sorry Marcel. It seems we have reached something of an impasse.’
This time he knew that he must speak, but for the longest time, he did not know what to say.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, in all innocence.
A smile wound its way around Louise’s face. Conspiratorially, she walked over to where Marcel sat, and lowered her face to his: ‘There is a new game of which I am rather fond. In this game, two players must compete to build a tower of wooden bricks – each time taking a brick from the bottom of the tower, and placing it at the top with sufficient care to ensure that the tower does not tumble.’ As she spoke, she retrieved a wooden box from a drawer. ‘The player that fells the tower is deemed the loser of the game. It is really most diverting.’
Marcel could not help a curl of disgust to form around his lips. Though a placid man, he had his limit. Though he was renowned as an artist, he spent most of his time playing chess in the cafés around Greenwich Village. He took chess very seriously, and he played well - the game was the right combination of mathematics and Machiavellian plotting to appeal to Marcel. This new game of bricks and towers was infantile! An insult!
He raised himself to his full height, pushed his patron out of the way, and in so doing cascaded the wooden blocks in a clatter over her floor. ‘I WILL NOT LOWER MYSELF TO THIS! GOOD-BYE.’ He exited the house, slamming the door shut behind him, and marched down the street.
After only fifty paces, he reached inside his trouser pockets to find them empty, and considered for a moment going back to Louise’s front door to ask for a nickel for the train-ride home. It was too late. He pulled his collar up high, and as the rain began to fall, he began the long walk home.