define but which she was sure had something to do with the odious
person whose studio she had visited. Could it be that Olga really
cared for this queer Markham of the goggled eyes, this absent-minded,
self-centered creature, who rumpled his hair, smoked a pipe and
growled his cheap philosophy? A pose, of course, aimed this morning
at Hermia. He flattered her. She felt obliged for the line of
demarcation he had so carefully drawn between his life and hers. As
if she needed the challenge of his impudence to become aware of it!
And yet I her heart she found herself denying that his impudence had
irritated her less than his indifference. To tell the truth, Hermia
did not like being ignored. It was the first time in fact, that any
man had ignored her, and she did not enjoy the sensation. She
shrugged her shoulders carelessly and glanced out of the window of her
car--and to be ignored by such a personas this grubby painter--it was
maddening! She thought of him as "grubby," whatever that meant,
because she did not like him, but it was even more maddening for her
to think of Olga Tcherny's portrait, which, in spite of her flippant
remarks, she had been forced to admit revealed a knowledge of feminine
psychology that had excited her amazement and admiration.

One deduction led to another. She found herself wondering what kind
of a portrait this Markham would make of her, whether he would see, as
he had seen in Olga--the things that lay below the surface--the dreams
that came, the aspirations, half-formed, toward something different,
the moments of revulsion at the emptiness of her life, which, in spite
of the material benefits it possessed, was, after all, only material.
Would he paint those--the shadows as well as the lights? Or would he
see her as Marsac, the Frenchman, had seen her, the pretty,
irresponsible child of fortune who lived only for others who were as
gay as herself with no more serious purpose in life than to become, as