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 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.”…