Madcap | Page 3

a clever, beautiful woman cannot be."
"I'm not clever or--"
"I shall not flatter you, cara mia. You are--er--quite handsome enough.
If you cared for the artistic you could go through a salon like the Piper
of Hamelin with a queue of gentlemen reaching back into the corridors
of infinity. Instead of which you wear mannish clothes, do your hair in
a Bath-bun, and permit men the privilege of equality. Oh, la, la! A man
is no longer useful when one ceases to mystify him."
She strolled to the window, sniffed at Trevvy Morehouse's roses,
helped herself to a cigarette and sat down.
Hermia was not inartistic and she resented the imputation. It was only
that her art and Olga's differed by the breadth of an ocean.
"For me, when a man becomes mystified he ceases to be useful,"
laughed Hermia.
"Pouf! my dear," said the Countess with a wave of her cigarette. "I
simply do not believe you. A man is never so useful as when he moves
in the dark. Women were born to mystify. Some of us do it one
way--some in another. If you wear mannish clothes and a Bath-bun, it
is because they become you extraordinarily well and because they form
a disguise more complete and mystifying than anything else you could
assume."

"A disguise!"
"Exactly. You wish to create the impression that you are indifferent to
men--that men, by the same token, are indifferent to you." The
Countess Olga smiled. "Your disguise is complete, mon enfant--except
for one thing-- your femininity--which refuses to be extinguished. You
do not hate men. If you did you would not go to so much trouble to
look like them. One day you will love very badly--very madly. And
then--" the Countess paused and raised her eyebrows and her hands
expressively. "You're like me. It's simple enough," she continued. "You
have everything you want, including men who amuse but do not inspire.
Obviously, you will only be satisfied with something you can't get, my
dear."
"Horrors! What a bird of ill-omen you are. And I shall love in vain?"
The Countess snuffed out her cigarette daintily upon the ash tray.
"Can one love in vain? Perhaps.
"'Aimer pour autre aimé, c'est de l'homme, Aimer pour aimer, c'est
Presque de l'ange.'"
"I'm afraid I'm not that kind of an angel."
Hilda Ashhurst laughed.
"Olga is."
"Olga!" exclaimed Hermia with a glance of inquiry.
"Haven't you heard? She has thrown her young affections away upon
that owl-like nondescript who has been doing her portrait."
"I can't believe it."
"It's true," said the Countess calmly. "I am quite mad about him. He has
the mind of a philosopher, the soul of a child, the heart of a woman--"

"--the manners of a boor and the impudence of the devil," added Hilda
spitefully.
Hermia laughed but the Countess Olga's narrowed eyes passed Hilda
scornfully.
"Any one can have good manners. They're the hallmark of mediocrity.
And as for impudence--that is the one sin a man may commit which a
woman forgives."
"I can't," said Hilda.
The Countess Olga's right shoulder moved toward her ear the fraction
of an inch.
"He's hateful, Hermia," continued Hilda quickly, "a gorilla of a man,
with a lowering brow, untidy hair, and a blue chin--"
"He is adorable," insisted Olga.
"How very interesting!" laughed Hermia. "An adorable philosopher,
with the impudence of the devil, and the blue chin of a gorilla! When
did you meet this logical--the zoological paradox?"
"Oh, in Paris. I knew him only slightly, but he moved in a set whose
edges touched mine--the talented people of mine. He had already made
his way. He has been back in America only a year. We met early in the
winter quite by chance. You know the rest. He has painted my
portrait--a really great portrait. You shall see."
"Oh, it was this morning we were going, wasn't it? I'll be ready in a
moment, dear."
"But Hilda shall be left in the shopping district, finished Olga.
"By all means," said Miss Ashhurst scornfully.
CHAPTER II

THE GORILLA
Of all her friends Olga Teherny was the one who amused and
entertained Hermia the most. She was older than Hermia, much more
experienced and to tell the truth quite as mad in her own way as Hermia
was. There were times when even Hermia could not entirely approve of
her, but she forgave her much because she was herself and because, no
matter what depended upon it, she could not be different if she tried.
Olga Egerton had been born in Russia, where her father had been called
as a consulting engineer of the railway department of the Russian
Government. Though American born, the girl had been educated
according to the European fashion and at twenty had married and lost
the