Madcap. George Gibbs
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 interests me—and shall continue to do so."
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed toward Olga. "What's the use,
Madame? In a moment I shall be telling Miss—er—"
"Challoner," said Hermia.
"I shall be telling Miss Challoner what I think of New York society—and of the people who compose it. That would be unfortunate."
"Well, rather," said Olga wearily. "Don't, I beg. Life's too short.
Must you break our pretty faded butterfly on the wheel?"
He shrugged his shoulders and turned aside.
"Not if it jars upon your sensibilities. I have no quarrel with your society. One only quarrels with an enemy or with a friend. To me society is neither." He smiled at Hermia amusedly. "Society may have its opinion of my utility and may express it freely—unchallenged."
"I don't challenge your utility," replied Hermia tartly. "I merely question your point of view. You do not see couleur de rose, Mr. Markham?"
"No. Life is not that color."
"Oh, la la!" from Olga. "Life is any color one wishes, and sometimes the color one does not wish. Very pale at times, gray, yellow and at times red—oh, so red! The soul is the chameleon which absorbs and reflects it. Today," she signed, "my chameleon has taken a vacation." She rose abruptly and threw out her arms with a dramatic gesture.
"Oh, you two infants—with your wise talk of life—you have already depressed me to the point of dissolution. I've no patience with you—with either of you. You've spoiled my morning, and I'll not stay here another minute." She reached for her trinkets on the table and rattled them viciously. "It's too bad. With the best intentions in the world I bring two of my friends together and they fall instantly into verbal fisticuffs. Hermia, you deserve no better fate than to be locked in here with this bear of a man until you both learn civility."
But Hermia had already preceded the Countess to the door, whither
Markham followed them.
"I should be charmed," said Markham.
"To learn civility?" asked Hermia acidly.
"I might even learn that—"
"It is inconceivable," put in the Countess. "You know, Markham, I don't mind your being bearish with me. In fact, I've taken it as the greatest of compliments. I thought that humor of yours was my special prerogative of friendship. But now alas! When I see how uncivil you can be to others I have a sense of lost caste. And you—instead of being amusingly whimsical and entÂt—are in danger of becoming merely bourgeois. I warn you now that if you plan to be uncivil to everybody—I shall give you up."
Markham and Hermia laughed. They couldn't help it. She was too absurd.
"Oh, I hope you won't do that," pleaded Markham.
"I'm capable of unheard of cruelties to those who incur my displeasure. I may even bring Miss Challoner in to call again."
Markham, protesting, followed them to the door.
"Au revoir, Monsieur," said the Countess.
Markham bowed in the general direction of the shadow in the hallway into which Miss Challoner had vanished and then turned back and took up his palette and brushes.
CHAPTER III
THE INEFFECTUAL AUNT
The two women had hardly reached the limousine before the vials of
Hermia's wrath were opened.
"What a dreadful person! Olga, how could you have stood him all the while he painted you?"
"We made out very nicely, thank you."
"Hilda was right. He is a gorilla. Do you know he never even offered me a chair?"
"I suppose he thought you'd have sense enough to sit down if you wanted to."
"O Olga, don't quibble. He's impossible."
The Countess shrugged.
"It's a matter of taste."
"Taste! One doesn't want to be affronted. Is he like this to every one?"
"No. That's just the point. He isn't. I think, Hermia, dear," and she laughed, "that he didn't like you."
"Me! Why not?"
"He doesn't like Bath-buns. He once told me so. Besides, I don't think he's altogether in sympathy with the things you typify."
"How does he know what I typify—when I don't know myself? I don't typify anything."
"Oh, yes, you do, to a man like Markham. From the eyrie where his soul is wont to sit, John Markham has a fine perspective on life—yours and mine. But I imagine that you make the more conspicuous silhouette. To him you represent 'the New York Idea'—only more so. Besides that you're a vellum edition of the Feminist Movement with suffrage expurgated. In other words, darling, to a lonely and somewhat morbid philosopher like Markham you're a horrible example of what may become of a female person of liberal views who has had the world suddenly laid in her lap; the spoiled child launched into the full possession of a fabulous fortune with no ambition more 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