“To-morrow,” said Leroux, standing up
and fixing his eyes upon her lingeringly, “will
be a red-letter day. I have no right to complain,
whilst such good friends remain to me—such
true friends."...
“Our lady of the poppies”
A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van
Noord’s large and dirty studio, these being
made up for the most part of those weird and nondescript
enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre
in the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals,
representing the Press, leavened the throng, but the
entire gathering—“advanced”
and unenlightened alike—seemed to be drawn
to a common focus: a large canvas placed advantageously
in the southeast corner of the studio, where it enjoyed
all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.
Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching
stool, and handling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder
with much grace, was Olaf van Noord. He had hair
of so light a yellow as sometimes to appear white,
worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut
squarely all around behind, lending him a medieval
appearance. He wore a slight mustache carefully
pointed; and his scanty vandyke beard could not entirely
conceal the weakness of his chin. His complexion
had the color and general appearance of drawing-paper,
and in his large blue eyes was an eerie hint of sightlessness.
He was attired in a light tweed suit cut in an American
pattern, and out from his low collar flowed a black
French knot.
Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise
Ryland, advancing across the floor with the measured
gait of a tragic actor. He greeted them aloofly,
and a little negro boy proffered tiny cups of China
tea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as her
gaze swept the picture-covered walls; but she seemed
to approve of the tea.
The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing
little yellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly
smilingly refused, but Denise Ryland took one of the
cigarettes, sniffed at it superciliously—and
then replaced it in the box.
“It has a most... egregiously horrible... odor,”
she commented.
“They are a special brand,” explained
Olaf van Noord, distractedly, “which I have
imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a small
percentage of opium.”
“Opium!” exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring
at the speaker and then at Helen Cumberly, as though
the latter were responsible in some way for the vices
of the painter.
“Yes,” he said, reclosing the box, and
pacing somberly to the door to greet a new arrival.
“Did you ever in all your life,” said
Denise Ryland, glancing about her, “see such
an exhibition... of nightmares?”
Certainly, the criticism was not without justification;
the dauby-looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible
water-colors, and riotous charcoal sketches which
formed the mural decoration of the studio were distinctly
“advanced.” But, since the center
of interest seemed to be the large canvas on the easel,
the two moved to the edges of the group of spectators
and began to examine this masterpiece. A very
puzzled newspaperman joined them, bending and whispering
to Helen Cumberly:
