Part 22 (1/2)

”Shut up, Nevins!” roared Ardly, seating himself at the table beside Mariana. ”As if everybody didn't know that Mr. Paul's prophecy was obliged to come to pa.s.s! Did you ever see a pessimist who wasn't infallible as a soothsayer? It beats a special revelation all hollow.”

”Please don't be irreverent,” remonstrated Mariana. ”I am sure I am awfully sorry about the 'Andromeda,' and I believe that if Mr. Nevins had taken my advice and lightened those shadows--”

”Or mine, and lengthened that thigh,” broke in Ardly.

”Or mine, and shortened the fingers,” added Miss Freighley.

”Or mine, and never painted it,” in a savage whisper from Algarcife.

Mr. Nevins silenced the quartet with promptness. ”Hang it all!” he exclaimed, crossly; ”between most of your suggestions for art's sake, and Mr. Paul's suggestions for decency's sake, there wouldn't be a blamed rag of her left.”

”On the contrary,” commented Mr. Paul, ”an additional rag or two would be decidedly advantageous.”

Mariana raised her finger, with an admonis.h.i.+ng shake of the head.

”Out upon you for a Philistine!” she said. ”I haven't heard such profanity since I showed my colored mammy a 'Venus de Milo,' and her criticism was, 'Lor', child! nakedness ain't no treat to me!'”

Mr. Nevins laughed uproariously, and filled Mariana's gla.s.s, while Algarcife glared from across the table.

”I should like to paste that motto in every studio in New York,”

returned Mr. Paul. ”It was the healthful sentiment of a mind undepraved by civilization.”

”What a first-rate censor you would make!” smiled Ardly, good-naturedly--”the fitting exponent of a people who see nastiness in a box of colors and evil in everything.”

Mr. Paul bore the charge with gravity. ”Yes, I keep my eyes well open,”

he responded, complacently.

Algarcife leaned across the table, and discussed woman's suffrage with Miss Ramsey. Mariana flushed and smiled, and glanced from Nevins to Ardly and back again.

Mr. Sellars, who had been engrossed by his salad, took up the cue.

”Oh, the world isn't to blame if we see it through a fog!” he said.

”Excellent salad.”

”Thanks,” drawled Mr. Nevins, amicably. ”I cut it up, and Ardly made the dressing. The cutting up is the part that tells.”

”But why didn't you bring it to me?” asked Mariana. ”I should have liked to help you.” Then she raised her gla.s.s. ”Health to 'Andromeda' and confusion to her enemies!”

There followed a wild clas.h.i.+ng of gla.s.ses and a series of hoa.r.s.e hurrahs from Mr. Nevins. After which Mariana was borne tumultuously to the piano, where she sang a little French song about love and fame.

Then Mr. Sellars sang an Irish ballad, and Nevins volunteered the statement that, after hearing Ardly, anybody who didn't mistake his nose for his mouth would be a relief.

”You don't listen,” protested Ardly. ”We have an excellent system,” he explained. ”We sometimes spend a musical evening, and when Nevins sings I look through the portfolio for my pieces, and when I sing he looks for his.”

That night when Mariana went up to her room she was in exuberant spirits. In a whirl of energy she pirouetted before the mirror. Then she stopped suddenly, grew white, and swayed forward.

”I can't stand excitement,” she said, and before Anthony could reach her she fell a limp heap upon the floor. Algarcife dashed into the adjoining room and returned with a flask of brandy. Then he undressed her, wrapped her in a dressing-gown, and, drawing off her shoes and stockings, chafed her cold feet. Mariana was too exhausted to protest, and allowed herself to be lulled to sleep like a child.