Madcap | Page 5

and his brush so unerring. She stole another--a more curious--glance at him. The hideous goggles and the rumpled hair could not disguise the strong lines of his face which she saw in profile--the heavy brows, the straight nose, the thin, rather sensitive lips and the strong, cleanly cut chin. Properly dressed and valeted this queer creature might have been made presentable. But his manners! No valeting or grooming could ever make such a man a gentleman.
If he was aware of her scrutiny he gave no sign of it and leaned forward intently, his gaze on the portrait--alone, to all appearances, with the fires of his genius. Hermia's eyes followed his, the superficial and rather frivolous comment which had been on her lips stilled for the moment by the dignity of his mental attitude, into which it seemed Olga Tcherny had also unconsciously fallen. But the silence irritated Hermia--the wrapt, absorbed attitudes of the man and the woman and the air of sacro-sanctity which pervaded the place. It was like a ceremonial in which this queer animal was being deified. She, at least, couldn't deify him.
"It's like you Olga, of course," she said flippantly, "but it's not at all pretty."
The words fell sharply and Markham and the Countess turned toward the Philistine who stood with her head cocked on one side, her arms a-kimbo. Markham's eyes peered forward somberly for a moment and he spoke with slow gravity.
"I don't paint 'pretty' portraits," he said.
"Mr. Markham means, Hermia, that he doesn't believe in artistic lies," said Olga smoothly.
"And I contend," Hermia went on undaunted, "that it's an artistic lie not to paint you as pretty as you are."
"Perhaps Mr. Markham doesn't think me as pretty as you do--"
Markham bowed his head as though to absolve himself from the guilt suggested.
"I try not to think in terms of prettiness," he explained slowly. "Had you been merely pretty I don't think I should have attempted--"
"But isn't the mission of Art to beautify--to adorn--?" broke in Hermia, mercilessly bromidic.
Markham turned and looked at her as though he had suddenly discovered the presence of an insect which needed extermination.
"My dear young lady, the mission of Art is to tell the truth," he growled. "When I find it impossible to do that, I shall take up another trade."
"Oh," said Hermia, enjoying herself immensely. "I didn't mean to discourage you."
"I don't really think that you have," put in Markham.
Olga Tcherny laughed from her chair in a bored amusement.
"Hermia, dear," she said dryly, "I hardly brought you here to deflect the orbit of genius. Poor Mr. Markham! I shudder to think of his disastrous career if it depended upon your approval."
Hermia opened her moth to speak, paused and then glanced at Markham. His thoughts were turned inward again and excluded her completely. Indeed it was difficult to believe that he remembered what she had been talking about. In addition to being unpardonably rude, he now simply ignored her. His manner enraged her. "Perhaps my opinion doesn't matter to Mr. Markham," she probed with icy distinctness. "Nevertheless, I represent the public which judges pictures and buys them. Which orders portraits and pays for them. It's my opinion that counts--my money upon which the fashionable portrait painter must depend for his success. He must please me or people like me and the way to please most easily is to paint me as I ought to be rather than as I am."
Markham slowly turned so that he faced her and eyed her with a puzzled expression as he caught the meaning of her remarks, more personal and arrogant than his brief acquaintance with her seemed in any way to warrant.
"I'm not a fashionable portrait painter, thank God." he said with some warmth. "Fortunately I'm not obliged to depend upon the whims or upon the money of the people whose judgment you consider so important to an artistic success. I have no interest in the people who compose fashionable society, not in their money nor their aims, ideals or the lack of them. I paint what interests me--and shall continue to do so."
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed toward Olga. "What's the use, Madame? In a moment I shall be telling Miss--er--"
"Challoner," said Hermia.
"I shall be telling Miss Challoner what I think of New York society--and of the people who compose it. That would be unfortunate."
"Well, rather," said Olga wearily. "Don't, I beg. Life's too short. Must you break our pretty faded butterfly on the wheel?"
He shrugged his shoulders and turned aside.
"Not if it jars upon your sensibilities. I have no quarrel with your society. One only quarrels with an enemy or with a friend. To me society is neither." He smiled at Hermia amusedly. "Society may have its opinion of my utility and may express it freely--unchallenged."
"I don't challenge your utility," replied