Milly shrank from the onslaught as though Cynthia What-ever-her-last-name-was had jabbed the deadly muzzle of an automatic into her midriff. She sent a desperate appeal to Nathan with her eyes as though Nathan should speak up and put the Cynthia person in her place with, “No thank you, Madame; my wife has absolutely no interest in Roerich—or any one or anything else but her husband.” But Nathan did nothing or the sort. He even looked relieved. Relieved until he saw his wife moving down the big library beside the old-gold gown. Milly wasn’t only a frump: she was a monstrosity! That flaming cerise with those awful spangles! Could it be possible that Milly had paid two hundred and fifty dollars for that? Where was Milly’s taste, anyway? Must he not only support his wife and shelter and feed her and educate her,—but turn modiste as well? It was sickening! Cerise Taffeta and Old-Gold Georgette brought up before a large canvas at the northern end of the library. Milly duly recognized that it was a picture because it was bounded by a gold frame and had a shade of inverted lights above it. “Have you ever seen any of Roerich’s work before?” queried the Cynthia person. She was amused in a way, but it was a painful amusement. “No,” gulped Milly. “This is called the ‘Rain Princess,’” went on Old Gold Georgette. “You know, I dearly love Roerich. He has so much tartaric virility—such bold, wide sweep and atmosphere. His brown steppes, his blue seas, and his purple mountains seem to come from a borderland——” “Yes,” gulped Milly. “It—it—ain’t painted very plain, is it?” “Roerich is always the colorist, the emotionalist. And in the East, form ever remains subservient to color, you know.” “I like paintin’s,” averred Milly, “where you can tell what you’re lookin’ at. There was an artist come to Paris one time. He painted pictures in the window of The Modern Bargain Store—painted ’em right while you watched—houses and trees and things. He asked ten dollars apiece for ’em. But it did seem a pity to pay him so much—he did ’em so quick.” “Paris, France?” demanded the puzzled Cynthia. “Lord, No! Paris, Vermont.” “Oh!” said the other quickly. “Me,—I go in for sepia,” confided Milly, gaining a bit of self-confidence and evincing the volubility of the provincial once started. “I’m doing my sitting room in browns and such. I got a print of St. Cecilia at Michalman’s. He lemme have it for seven dollars because the frame was scratched. But you never’d notice unless you looked close. And it was a fifteen-dollar picture!” “How interesting!” murmured the other in slight distress.