Madcap | Page 5

before her.

It was not the Olga Tcherny that people knew best--the gay, satirical
mondaine, who exacted from a world which had denied her happiness
her pound of flesh and called it pleasure. The Olga Tcherny which
looked at Hermia from the canvas was the one that Hermia had
glimpsed in the brief moments between bitterness and frivolity, a
woman with a soul which in spite of her still dreamed of the things it
had been denied.
It was a startling portrait, bold almost to the point of brutality, and even
Hermia recognized its individuality, wondering at the capacity for
analysis which had made the painter's delineation of character so
remarkable, 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