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:
"Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am writing
it up as a practical joke! We are giving him half a column--Lord knows
what for!--but I can't see how to handle it except as funny stuff.
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