Cerise Taffeta and Old-Gold Georgette brought up before a large canvas at the northern end of the library. Milly duly recognized that it was a picture because it was bounded by a gold frame and had a shade of inverted lights above it.
“Have you ever seen any of Roerich’s work before?” queried the Cynthia person. She was amused in a way, but it was a painful amusement.
“No,” gulped Milly.
“This is called the ‘Rain Princess,’” went on Old Gold Georgette. “You know, I dearly love Roerich. He has so much tartaric virility—such bold, wide sweep and atmosphere. His brown steppes, his blue seas, and his purple mountains seem to come from a borderland——”
“Yes,” gulped Milly. “It—it—ain’t painted very plain, is it?”
“Roerich is always the colorist, the emotionalist. And in the East, form ever remains subservient to color, you know.”
“I like paintin’s,” averred Milly, “where you can tell what you’re lookin’ at. There was an artist come to Paris one time. He painted pictures in the window of The Modern Bargain Store—painted ’em right while you watched—houses and trees and things. He asked ten dollars apiece for ’em. But it did seem a pity to pay him so much—he did ’em so quick.”
“Paris, France?” demanded the puzzled Cynthia.
“Lord, No! Paris, Vermont.”
“Oh!” said the other quickly.