"Such hospitality!"

At the sound of her voice Markham paused, the huge palette and brushes
suspended in the air.

"Oh," he murmured in some confusion. "It's you, Madame--"

"It is. Very cross and dusty after the climb up your filthy stairs--I
suppose I ought to be used to this kind of welcome but I'm not,
somehow. Besides, I'm bringing a visitor, and had hoped to find you in
a pleasanter mood."

He showed his white teeth as he laughed.

"Oh, Lord! Pleasant!" And then as an afterthought, very frankly, "I
don't suppose I _am_ very pleasant!" He stood aside bowing as Hermia
emerged from the shadows and Olga Tcherny presented him. It was a
stiff bow, rather awkward and impatient and revealed quite plainly his
disappointment at her presence, but Hermia followed Olga into the room
with a slight inclination of her head, conscious that in the moment
that his eyes passed over her they made a brief note which classified
her among the unnecessary nuisances to which busy geniuses must be
subjected.

Olga Tcherny, who had now taken full possession of the studio, fell
into its easiest chair and looked up at the painter with her caressing
smile.

"You've been working. You've got the fog of it on you. Are we _de
trop_?"