The Pagans | Page 4

made itself felt in whatever company he found
himself. His head, although not out of proportion with his fine
shoulders and trunk, was somewhat massive, a fact which was
emphasized a little by the profusion of his locks, now plentifully
sprinkled with gray. His face was indicative of much character, the lips
firm and full, the eyes large and dark, now serious under their heavy
brows and now twinkling with contagious merriment.
"It isn't every model you can talk scandal about," chuckled Bently, in
reply to Herman's remark. "We had a devilishly pretty fuss in Nick
Featherstone's studio the other day. Nick found his match in the new
model."
"What new model?" inquired Fenton, arranging himself into an
effective pose before the fire.
"Do you remember the picture of an Italian girl that Tom Demming
sent to the Academy exhibition two years ago? A homely face with lots
of character in it, and a splendid pose?"
"You mean the one he called _Marietta?_ It was well done, if I

remember."
"Oh, stunningly. That's the girl. She's just landed, and Demming gave
her letters to me. She's a staving good model!"
"But she isn't pretty."
"No; but she is suggestive. She has one of those faces that you can
make all sorts of things out of. Rollins made a sketch of her head that is
stunning; a lovely thing; and it looked like her too. Then her figure is
perfect, and what is more, she knows how to pose. She meets an idea
half way, you know, and hits the expression wonderfully. She has given
me points for my picture every time she has been at the studio."
"Is her name Ninitta?" Grant Herman asked.
"Yes; do you know any thing about her?"
"I think I've seen her in Rome. But what is she doing on this side of the
water?"
To Arthur Fenton's keen perception there seemed more feeling in the
tone than an inquiry into the affairs of a stranger would be likely to
evoke, but he gave the matter no especial thought.
"Yes," he echoed lightly, "what is she here for? There is no art in this
country. New York is the home of barbarism and Boston of
Philistinism; while Cincinnati is a chromo imitation of both. She'd
better have staid abroad."
"Your remark is true, Arthur," Bently laughed, "if it isn't very relevant.
What people in this country want isn't art at all, but what some Great
Panjandrum or other abroad has labeled art. They don't know what is
good."
"That is so true," was the retort, "that I almost wonder they don't buy
your pictures, Tom."
"But why does the girl come to America?" persisted Herman, with a
faint trace of irritation in his tone. "She could do far better at home."
"Oh, Demming wrote that she was bound to come. You can never tell
what ails a woman anyhow. Probably she has a lover over here
somewhere."
Herman made no reply save by an involuntary lowering of his heavy
brows, and Rangely brought the conversation back to its starting-point
by asking:
"But what about Nick Featherstone?"
"Oh, Nick? Well, Nick tried to kiss her yesterday, and she offered to

stab him with some sort of a devilish dagger arrangement she carries
about like an opera heroine."
"Featherstone is always a strong temptation to an honest man's boot,"
growled Herman out of his beard, as he sat with his head sunk upon his
breast, staring into the fire.
"They had a scene that wouldn't have done discredit to a first-class
opera-bouffe company," Bently went on, laughing at the remembrance.
"Nick was fool enough to hollo to somebody in the next room, and the
result was that we all came trooping in like a chorus. It was absurd
enough."
And he laughed afresh.
"But the girl?" persisted Grant Herman, not removing his gaze from the
fire. "How did she take it?"
"Oh, she was as calm and cold as you please. She gathered herself
together and went off without any fuss."
"I wish when you are done with her, you'd send her round to me,"
Herman rejoined. "I want a model for a figure, and if I remember her,
she'll do capitally."
He rose as he spoke, with the air of a man who intends going home.
"By the way," Fenton said to him, "isn't the Pagan night next week?
Don't you have it this month?"
"Yes; you'll get your invitations sometime or other. Good night all."
"Oh, don't break good company," Rangely remonstrated. "I have half a
bottle here, and I do hate an alcoholic soliloquy."
But the movement for departure was general, and in a few moments
more the members of the company were wending their individual ways
homeward through the pelting rain.

III.
THE SHOT