orrow," 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."...

"To-morrow," said Leroux, standing up and fixing his eyes upon her
lingeringly, "will be a red-letter day. I have no right to complain,
whilst such good friends remain to me--such true friends."...

XXVI

"OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES"

A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord's large and
dirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those weird and
nondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre in
the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals, representing the
Press, leavened the throng, but the entire gathering--"advanced" and
unenlightened alike--seemed to be drawn to a common focus: a large
canvas placed advantageously in the southeast corner of the studio,
where it enjoyed all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.

Seated apart from his worshipers upon a lit