Madcap | Page 4

young nobleman whose name she bore, and had buried him in his
family crypt in Moscow with the simple fortitude of one who is well
out of a bad bargain. But she had paid her toll to disillusion and the age
of thirty found her a little more careless, a little more worldly-wise than
was necessary, even in a cosmopolitan. Her comments spared neither
friend nor foe and Hilda Ashhurst, whose mind grasped only the
obvious facts of existence, came in for more than a share of the lady's
invective.
Indeed, Markam, the painter, seemed this morning to be the only
luminous spot on the Countess Olga's social horizon and by the time
the car had reached lower Fifth Avenue she had related most of the
known facts of his character and career including his struggle for
recognition in Europe, his revolutionary attitude toward the Art of the
Academies as well as toward modern society, and the consequent and
self-sought isolation which deprived him of the intercourse of his
fellows and seriously retarded his progress toward a success that his
professional talents undoubtedly merited.
Hermia listened with an abstracted air. Artists she remembered were a
race of beings quite apart from the rest of humanity and with the
exception of a few money-seeking foreigners, one of whom had painted
her portrait, and Teddy Vincent, a New Yorker socially prominent
(who was unspeakable), her acquaintance with the cult had been limited
and unfavorable. When, therefore, her car drew alongside the curb of

the old-fashioned building to which Olga directed the chauffeur,
Hermia was already prepared to dislike Mr. Markham cordially. She
had not always cared for Olga's friends.
There was no elevator in the building before which they stopped, and
the two women mounted the stairs, avoiding both the wall and the
dusty baluster, contact with either of which promised to defile their
white gloves, reaching, somewhat out of breath, a door with a
Florentine knocker bearing the name "Markham."
Olga knocked. There was no response. She knocked again while
Hermia waited, a question on her lips. There was a sound of heavy
footsteps and the door was flung open wide and a big man with
rumpled hair, a well-smeared painting-smock and wearing a huge pair
of tortoise-shell goggles peered out into the dark hall-way, blurting out
impatiently,
"I'm very busy. I don't need any models. Come another day--"
He was actually on the point of banging the door in their faces when
the Countess interposed.
"Such hospitality!"
At the sound of her voice Markham paused, the huge palette and
brushes suspended in the air.
"Oh," he murmured in some confusion. "It's you, Madame--"
"It is. Very cross and dusty after the climb up your filthy stairs--I
suppose I ought to be used to this kind of welcome but I'm not,
somehow. Besides, I'm bringing a visitor, and had hoped to find you in
a pleasanter mood."
He showed his white teeth as he laughed.
"Oh, Lord! Pleasant!" And then as an afterthought, very frankly, "I
don't suppose I am very pleasant!" He stood aside bowing as Hermia

emerged from the shadows and Olga Tcherny presented him. It was a
stiff bow, rather awkward and impatient and revealed quite plainly his
disappointment at her presence, but Hermia followed Olga into the
room with a slight inclination of her head, conscious that in the
moment that his eyes passed over her they made a brief note which
classified her among the unnecessary nuisances to which busy geniuses
must be subjected.
Olga Tcherny, who had now taken full possession of the studio, fell
into its easiest chair and looked up at the painter with her caressing
smile.
"You've been working. You've got the fog of it on you. Are we de
trop?"
"Er--no. It's in rather a mess here, that's all. I was working, but I'm
quite willing to stop."
"I'm afraid you've no further wish for me now that I'm no longer
useful," she sighed. "You're not going to discard me so easily. Besides,
we're not going to stay long--only a minute. I was hoping Miss
Challoner could see the portrait."
He glanced at Hermia almost resentfully, and fidgeted with his brushes.
"Yes--of course. It's the least I can do--isn't it? The portrait isn't
finished. It's dried in, too--but--"
He laid his palette slowly down and wiped his brushes carefully on a
piece of cheese-cloth, put a canvas in a frame upon the easel and
shoved it forward into a better light.
Hermia followed his movements curiously, sure that he was the most
inhospitable human being upon whom two pretty women had ever
condescended to call, and stood uncomfortably, realizing that he has
not even offered her a chair. But when the portrait was turned toward
the light, she forgot everything but the canvas