“I hope it's fine to-morrow,” said Helen rapidly. “A drive to Richmond will be quite delightful.”
“I think, myself,” agreed Leroux, “that it will hasten my recovery to breathe the fresh air once again.”
Knowing how eagerly he longed for health and strength, and to what purpose, the girl found something very pathetic in the words.
“I wish you were well enough to come out this afternoon,” she said; “I am going to a private view at Olaf van Noord's studio. It is sure to be an extraordinary afternoon. He is the god of the Soho futurists, you know. And his pictures are the weirdest nightmares imaginable. One always meets such singular people there, too, and I am honored in receiving an invitation to represent the Planet!”
“I consider,” said Denise Ryland, head wagging furiously again, “that the man is... mad. He had an exhibition... in Paris ... and everybody... laughed at him... simply LAUGHED at him.”
“But financially, he is very successful,” added Helen.
“Financially!” exclaimed Denise Ryland, “FINANCIALLY! To criticize a man's work... financially, is about as... sensible as... to judge the Venus... de Milo... by weight!—or to sell the works... of Leonardo... da Vinci by the... yard! Olaf van Noord is nothing but... a fool... of the worst possible... description... imaginable.”
“He is at least an entertaining fool!” protested Helen, laughingly.
“A mountebank!” cried Denise Ryland; “a clown... a pantaloon... a whole family of... idiots... rolled into one!”
“It seems unkind to run away and leave you here—in your loneliness,” said Helen to Leroux; “but really I must be off to the wilds of Soho.”...