"
"But, for heaven's sake... what does he... CALL it?" muttered Denise
Ryland, holding a pair of gold rimmed pince-nez before her eyes, and
shifting them to and fro in an endeavor to focus the canvas.
"'Our Lady of the Poppies,'" replied the journalist. "Do you think it's
intended to mean anything in particular?"
The question was no light one; it embodied a problem not readily solved.
The scene depicted, and depicted with a skill, with a technical mastery
of the bizarre that had in it something horrible--was a long narrow
room--or, properly, cavern. The walls apparently were hewn from black
rock, and at regular intervals, placed some three feet from these
gleaming walls, uprose slender golden pillars supporting a kind of
fretwork arch which entirely masked the ceiling. The point of sight
adopted by the painter was peculiar. One apparently looked down into
this apartment from some spot elevated fourteen feet or more above the
floor level. The floor, which was black and polished, was strewn with
tiger skins; and little, inlaid tables and garishly colored cushions
were spread about in confusion, whilst cushioned divans occupied the
visible corners of the place. The lighting was very "advanced": a lamp,
having a kaleidoscopic shade, swung from the center of the roof low into
the room and furnished all the illumination.
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