"Too nice of you," murmured Aileen, who was determined to behave.
"And you!" she cried, turning to Alexina. "Your eyes simply blaze. You look
like a long white arum lily. And dusky hair, not merely black. Oh, I do
think you are both too wonderful, and I am sure all these splendid artists
here will want to paint you."
Alexina and Aileen were not accustomed to such spontaneous and unbridled
admiration and they thought Miss Smith quite fascinating if rather queer.
But Miss Smith did not number tact among her gifts and rushed on.
"Gora Dwight is too wonderful looking for words. We are all crazy over
her. All the artists want to paint her already. Her coloring and style are
unique and she suggests tragedy--with those marvelous pale eyes in that
dark face--those heavy dark brows and heavy masses of hair. I have
suggested that Folkes--your greatest portrait painter, you know,--paint
her as Medea, or as the Genius of the Revolution, How proud you must be of
her!"
"So we are," murmured Aileen. "We think she is the only woman writer in
America worth mentioning. Why don't you paint her yourself?"
"I? I am not an artist--with the brush! I am an author, Alma De Quincey
Smith."
"Oh!..." Aileen's voice trailed off vaguely, "What do you write? Plays?
Essays?..."
"I--why, I'm one of the best--my stories appear constantly in the best
magazines." Miss Smith, who had been deserted some time since by Miss
Halsey, looked abject, helpless, and infuriated.
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