It was a startling portrait, bold almost to the point of brutality,
and even Hermia recognized its individuality, wondering at the
capacity for analysis which had made the painter's delineation of
character so remarkable, and his brush so unerring. She stole
another--a more curious--glance at him. The hideous goggles and the
rumpled hair could not disguise the strong lines of his face which she
saw in profile--the heavy brows, the straight nose, the thin, rather
sensitive lips and the strong, cleanly cut chin. Properly dressed and
valeted this queer creature might have been made presentable. But his
manners! No valeting or grooming could ever make such a man a
gentleman.

If he was aware of her scrutiny he gave no sign of it and leaned
forward intently, his gaze on the portrait--alone, to all appearances,
with the fires of his genius. Hermia's eyes followed his, the
superficial and rather frivolous comment which had been on her lips
stilled for the moment by the dignity of his mental attitude, into
which it seemed Olga Tcherny had also unconsciously fallen. But the
silence irritated Hermia--the wrapt, absorbed attitudes of the man and
the woman and the air of sacro-sanctity which pervaded the place. It
was like a ceremonial in which this queer animal was being deified.
She, at least, couldn't deify him.

"It's like you Olga, of course," she said flippantly, "but it's not at
all pretty."

The words fell sharply and Markham and the Countess turned toward the
Philistine who stood with her head cocked on one side, her arms
a-kimbo. Markham's eyes peered forward somberly for a moment and he