The Pagans | Page 8

matter up again by asking:
"But why are you artists opposed to Uncle Peter, Arthur? What is the--"

"The Pagans, _ma belle_" he interrupted coolly, quite as if he were
answering her question, although in reality nothing was further from
his intention, "isn't really a society at all. It is only the name by which
we've taken to calling a knot of fellows who meet once a month in each
other's studios. We are all St. Filipe men, but we've no organization as
a club." "Well?" Edith asked, as he paused; evidently puzzled to
discover any connection between her question and his reply.
"And you," her betrothed responded, tucking her into the carriage and
surreptitiously kissing her hand, "are the loveliest of your sex. I'll come
to take you to the depot at six, you know. Good-by."
He closed the carriage door, watched her drive off, and then went his
own way.

V.
THE BITTER PAST. All's Well that Ends Well; v.--3.
"The Pagans: Friday, Jan. 17. Pipes, pictures and punch. GRANT
HERMAN."
Such was the invitation received one day by each of the Pagans, under
a seal bearing the impress of the goddess Pasht.
There is little that need be added to Fenton's account of the Pagans. The
society had no organization beyond a rule to meet each month and to
limit its membership to seven; no especial principles beyond an
unformulated although by no means unexpressed antagonism against
Philistinism. Fenton had suggested Pasht as a sort of dea mater, and
had furnished the seal bearing the image of that goddess which it was
customary to use upon the notifications of meetings; and for the rest
there was nothing definite to distinguish this group of earnest and
sometimes fiery young men from any other. They doubtless said a great
many foolish things, but they did so many wise ones that it seemed but
reasonable to assume that there must be some grains of wisdom
mingled with whatever dross was to be found in their speech.
Their views were extreme enough. Fenton was fond of maintaining
astounding propositions, using the club much as Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes once privately said Wendell Phillips does the community, "to
try the strength of extravagant theories;" and none of the Pagans were
restrained by any conventionality from a free expression of opinion.
It was on the afternoon of the day fixed for the Pagan meeting when

Helen Greyson took her way across the Common and through the
business portion of the city to the building down by the wharves where
were the studios of Herman and his pupils. It was feebly raining, the
weather having been decidedly whimsical all that week, and the clouds
rolled in ragged, sullen masses overhead. Helen felt the gloom of the
day as a vague depression which she endeavored in vain to shake off,
and hastened towards her studio, hoping to be able to lose herself in her
work.
Picking her steps among the piles of fire-brick and terra-cotta which
lumbered the yard and the long shed skirting the building, which was a
terra-cotta manufactory, she let herself in at a side door and went
directly to her studio.
Removing the wet cloths from her bas-relief, she stood for a moment
studying it, and then investing herself in a great apron, set busily to
work upon one of the fleeting figures in the composition.
She had scarcely begun when as often before a heavy step was heard
upon the stair without, a tap sounded lightly upon her door, and, in
answer to her invitation, Grant Herman entered.
He, too, had evidently been working in clay, of which his loose blouse
bore abundant marks. A paper cap, not unlike that of a pastry-cook in
an English picture, was stuck a little aslant over his iron gray locks,
giving him a certain roguish air, with which the occasional twinkle in
his eye harmonized well.
"Good morning, Mrs. Greyson," he said in his hearty voice, and then
stood for a moment looking over her shoulder at her work in silence.
"Do you think the movement of that figure too violent?" his pupil asked,
turning to look up at him, and noticing for the first time that despite the
saucy pose of his cap, the sculptor was evidently not in the best of
spirits.
"No," returned he, rather absently. "But you must have less agitation in
the robe; it is merely hurried now, not swift. Lengthen and simplify
those folds--so."
As he indicated the desired curves with his nervous fingers, Mrs.
Greyson's quick eye caught sight of a striking ring upon his hand, and
without thought she said, involuntarily:
"You have a new ring!"
"Yes," returned Herman, flushing; "or rather a very old one. It is an

intaglio that the artist Hoffmeir--I have told you