Madcap | Page 7

serious than to
become the 'champeen lady-aviator of Madison Avenue--'"
"Olga! You're horrid," broke in Hermia.
"I know it. It's the reaction from a morning which began too cheerfully.
I think I'll leave you now, if you'll drop me at the Blouse Shop--"
"But I thought we were going--"
"No. Not this morning. The mood has passed."
"Oh, very well," said Hermia.

The two pecked each other just below the eye after the manner of
women and the Countess departed, while Hermia quizzically watched
her graceful back until it had disappeared in the shadows of the store.
The current that usually flowed between them was absent now, so
Hermia let her go; for Olga Tcherny, when in this mood, wore an armor
which Hermia, clever as she thought herself, had never been able to
penetrate.
Hermia continued on her way uptown, aware that the change in the
Countess Olga was due to intangible influences which she could not
define but which she was sure had something to do with the odious
person whose studio she had visited. Could it be that Olga really cared
for this queer Markham of the goggled eyes, this absent-minded,
self-centered creature, who rumpled his hair, smoked a pipe and
growled his cheap philosophy? A pose, of course, aimed this morning
at Hermia. He flattered her. She felt obliged for the line of demarcation
he had so carefully drawn between his life and hers. As if she needed
the challenge of his impudence to become aware of it! And yet I her
heart she found herself denying that his impudence had irritated her less
than his indifference. To tell the truth, Hermia did not like being
ignored. It was the first time in fact, that any man had ignored her, and
she did not enjoy the sensation. She shrugged her shoulders carelessly
and glanced out of the window of her car--and to be ignored by such a
personas this grubby painter--it was maddening! She thought of him as
"grubby," whatever that meant, because she did not like him, but it was
even more maddening for her to think of Olga Tcherny's portrait, which,
in spite of her flippant remarks, she had been forced to admit revealed a
knowledge of feminine psychology that had excited her amazement and
admiration.
One deduction led to another. She found herself wondering what kind
of a portrait this Markham would make of her, whether he would see,
as he had seen in Olga--the things that lay below the surface--the
dreams that came, the aspirations, half-formed, toward something
different, the moments of revulsion at the emptiness of her life, which,
in spite of the material benefits it possessed, was, after all, only
material. Would he paint those--the shadows as well as the lights? Or

would he see her as Marsac, the Frenchman, had seen her, the pretty,
irresponsible child of fortune who lived only for others who were as
gay as herself with no more serious purpose in life than to become, as
Olga had said, "the champeen lady-aviator of Madison Avenue."
Hermia lunched alone--out of humor with all the world--and went
upstairs with a volume of plays which had just come from the stationer.
But she had hardly settled herself comfortably when Titine announced
Mrs. Westfield.
It was the ineffectual Aunt.
"Oh, yes," with an air of resignation, "tell Mrs. Westfield to come up."
She pulled the hair over her temples to conceal the scars of her
morning's accident and met Mrs. Westfield at the landing outside.
"Dear Aunt Harriet. So glad," she said, grimacing cheerfully to salve
her conscience. "What have I been doing now?"
"What haven't you been doing, child?"
The good lady sank into a chair, the severe lines in her face more than
usually acidulous, but Hermia only smiled sweetly, for Mrs. Westfield's
forbidding aspect, as she well knew, concealed the most indulgent of
dispositions.
"Playing polo with men, racing in your motor and getting yourself
talked about in the papers! Really, Hermia, what will you be doing
next?"
"Flying," said Hermia.
Mrs. Westfield hesitated between a gasp and a smile.
"I don't doubt it. You are quite capable of anything--only your wings
will not be sent from Heaven--"
"No--from Paris. I'm going to have a Bleriot."

"Do you actually mean that you're going to--O Hermia! Not fly--!" The
girl nodded.
"I--I'm afraid I am, Auntie. It's the sporting thing. You know I never
could bear having Reggie Armistead do anything I couldn't. Every one
will be doing it soon."
"I can't believe that you're in earnest."
"I am, awfully."
"But the danger! You must realize that!"
"I do--that's what attracts me." She got up and put her arms around Mrs.
Westfield's neck. "O Auntie, dear, don't bother. I'm absolutely
impossible anyway. I can't be happy doing the things that