In the doorway, immediately behind Bianchi and looking over the little man's head, stood a woman of perhaps forty years of age in full evening toilet.
About her head was wound a black lace scarf, and hanging from her beautiful shoulders, half-concealing a figure of marvellous symmetry, was a long black cloak, open at the throat, trimmed with fur, and lined with watermelon pink silk. Tucked in her hair was a red japonica. She was courtesying to the room with all the poise and graciousness of a prima donna saluting an audience.
Oliver sprang for his coat and was about to cram his arms into the sleeves, when she cried:
"Oh, please don't! I wish I could wear a coat myself, so that I could take it off and paint. Oh! the smell of the lovely pipes! It's heavenly, and it's so like home. Really," and she looked about her, "this is the only place I have seen in America that I can breathe in. I've heard of you all winter and I so wanted to come. I would not give dear Bianchi any rest till he brought me. Oh! I'm so glad to be here."
Oliver and the others were still standing, looking in amazement at the new-corner. One of the unwritten laws of the club was that no woman should ever enter its doors, a law that until this moment had never been broken.
While she was speaking Bianchi stepped back, and took the tips of the woman's fingers within his own.
When she had finished he thrust out one foot and, with the bow of an impresario introducing a new songstress, said:
"Gentlemen of the Stone Mugs, I have the honor of presenting you to the Countess Kovalski."
Again the woman courtesied, sweeping the floor with her black velvet skirt, broke out into a laugh, handed her cloak and scarf to Bianchi, who threw them over the shoulders of the lay figure, and moved toward the table, Fred, as host, drawing out a chair for her.
"Oh!--what lovely beginnings--" she continued, examining the sketches with her lorgnette, after the members had made their salutations, "Let me make one. I studied two years with Achenbach.
You did not know that Bianchi, did you? There are so many things you do not know, you lovely man."
She was as much at home as if she had been there every evening of her life.
Still, with the same joyous self-contained air she settled herself in Fred's proffered chair, picked up one of Jack's brushes, reached over his shoulder, and with a "please-hold-still, thank you," scooped up a little yellow ochre from his palette, and unloaded it on a corner of a tile. Then, stripping off her bracelets, she piled them in a heap before her, selected a Greek coin dangling from the end of one of them, propped it up on the table and began to paint; the men, all of whom were too astonished to resume their work, crowding about her, watching the play of her brush; a brush so masterful in its technique that before the picture was finished the room broke out in unrestrained applause.
During all this time she was talking in German to Crug, or in French to Waller, only stopping to light a fresh cigarette which she took from a jewelled case and laid beside her. She could, no doubt, have as easily lapsed into Russian, Choctaw, or Chinese had there been any such strange people about.
When the men had resumed their customary seats and the room had once more settled to work--it had only been a question of *** that had destroyed the equilibrium, a question no longer of value now that the fair intruder could really PAINT--Oliver bent over her and said in his most gallant manner:
"If the Countess Kovalski will be gracious enough to excuse Bianchi (he had never left her elbow) I will try and make a burgomaster of him. Perhaps you will help me tie this around his neck," and he held out the white ruff. He had put on his coat despite her protest.
"What, dear Bianchi in a ruff! Oh! how perfectly charming! That's really just what he looks like.
I've always told him that Rembrandt ought to have seen him. Come, you sweet man, hold up your beautiful Dutch face."
As she spoke she caught the ruff from Oliver's hand and stretched out her bare arms toward Blanch.
"No, I'm not going to pose now," protested the Pole, pushing back her hands. "You can get me any time. Take the Countess, Horn. She'd make a stunner."
"Yes! Yes! Please do," she laughed, springing from her seat and clapping her hands with all the gayety and joyousness of a child over some expected pleasure.
Oliver hesitated for an instant, as he looked down into her eyes, wondering whether his brush could do justice to their depth. Then he glanced at her supple figure and white skin in contrast to the black velvet, its edge softened by the fall of lace, the dominant, insistent note of the red japonica in her blue-black hair, the flesh tones brilliant under the gas-jets.
The color scheme was exactly what he had been looking for all winter--black, white, and a touch of red.
"I have never been so honored, Madame. Nothing could give me greater pleasure," he answered, with a dry smile. "May I escort your ladyship to the platform?" And he held out his hand and conducted her to the stand facing the big easel.
Then there followed a scene such as many of the Stone Mugs had not shared in since they left the Latin Quarter.
The Countess stood erect on the raised platform, with head up and slightly turned, the full glare of the gas-jets falling upon her neck and throat, made all the more brilliant by reason of the dark green walls of Fred's studio, which formed the background behind her. One arm was partly raised, a lighted cigarette between her fingers; the other was lost in the folds of the velvet gown. She posed as naturally and as easily as if she had done nothing else all her life, and with a certain bravado and swing that enchanted everybody in the room.
