fellows and seriously retarded his progress toward a success that his
professional talents undoubtedly merited.

Hermia listened with an abstracted air. Artists she remembered were a
race of beings quite apart from the rest of humanity and with the
exception of a few money-seeking foreigners, one of whom had painted
her portrait, and Teddy Vincent, a New Yorker socially prominent (who
was unspeakable), her acquaintance with the cult had been limited and
unfavorable. When, therefore, her car drew alongside the curb of the
old-fashioned building to which Olga directed the chauffeur, Hermia
was already prepared to dislike Mr. Markham cordially. She had not
always cared for Olga's friends.

There was no elevator in the building before which they stopped, and
the two women mounted the stairs, avoiding both the wall and the dusty
baluster, contact with either of which promised to defile their white
gloves, reaching, somewhat out of breath, a door with a Florentine
knocker bearing the name "Markham."

Olga knocked. There was no response. She knocked again while Hermia
waited, a question on her lips. There was a sound of heavy footsteps
and the door was flung open wide and a big man with rumpled hair, a
well-smeared painting-smock and wearing a huge pair of tortoise-shell
goggles peered out into the dark hall-way, blurting out impatiently,

"I'm very busy. I don't need any models. Come another day--"

He was actually on the point of banging the door in their faces when
the Countess interposed.