Palla blushed a little but smilingly affixed her signature to the papers elaborately presented by Angelo Puma.
“A lease?” he remarked, with a flourish of his large, sanguine, and jewelled hand. “A detail merely for your security, Miss Dumont. For me, I require only the 183 expression of your slightest wish. That, to me, is a command more binding than the seal of the notary!”
And he flashed his dazzling smile on Palla, who was tucking her copy of the agreement into her muff.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Puma,” she said, almost inclined to laugh at his extravagances. And she laid down a certified check to cover the first month’s rental.
Mr. Puma bowed; his large, heavily lashed black eyes were very brilliant; his mouth much too red under the silky black moustache.
“For me,” he said impulsively, “art alone matters. What is money? What is rent? What are all the annoying details of commerce? Interruptions to the soul-flow! Checks to the fountain jet of inspiration! Art only is important. Have you ever seen a cinema studio, Miss Dumont?”
Palla never had.
“Would it interest you, perhaps?”
“Thank you––some time–––”
“It is but a step! They are working. A peep will take but a moment––if you please––a thousand excuses that I proceed to show you the way!–––”