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