Helen laughed, but very uneasily. Evidently it had been an illusion, but an unpleasant illusion; for she should have been prepared to swear that not two, but THREE people had entered! Moreover, although she was unable to detect the presence of any third stranger in the studio, the persuasion that this third person actually was present remained with her, unaccountably, and uncannily. The lady of the tiger skins was surrounded by an admiring group of unusuals, and Helen, who had turned again to the big canvas, suddenly became aware that the little cross-eyed man was bowing and beaming radiantly before her. “May I be allowed,” said Olaf van Noord who stood beside him, “to present my friend Mr. Gianapolis, my dear Miss Cumberly?”... Helen Cumberly found herself compelled to acknowledge the introduction, although she formed an immediate, instinctive distaste for Mr. Gianapolis. But he made such obvious attempts to please, and was so really entertaining a talker, that she unbent towards him a little. His admiration, too, was unconcealed; and no pretty woman, however great her common sense, is entirely admiration-proof. “Do you not think 'Our Lady of the Poppies' remarkable?” said Gianapolis, pleasantly. “I think,” replied Denise Ryland,--to whom, also, the Greek had been presented by Olaf van Noord, “that it indicates... a disordered... imagination on the part of... its creator.” “It is a technical masterpiece,” replied the Greek, smiling, “but hardly a work of imagination; for you have seen the original of the principal figure, and”--he turned to Helen Cumberly--“one need not go very far East for such an interior as that depicted.” “What!” Helen knitted her brows, prettily--“you do not suggest that such an apartment actually exists either East or West?” Gianapolis beamed radiantly. “You would, perhaps, like to see such an apartment?” he suggested. “I should, certainly,” replied Helen Cumberly. “Not even in a stage setting have I seen anything like it.” “You have never been to the East?” “Never, unfortunately. I have desired to go for years, and hope to go some day.” “In Smyrna you may see such rooms; possibly in Port Said--certainly in Cairo. In Constantinople--yes! But perhaps in Paris; and--who knows?--Sir Richard Burton explored Mecca, but who has explored London?” Helen Cumberly watched him curiously. “You excite my curiosity,” she said. “Don't you think”--turning to Denise Ryland--“he is most tantalizing?” Denise Ryland distended her nostrils scornfully. “He is telling... fairy tales,” she declared. “He thinks... we are... silly!” “On the contrary,” declared Gianapolis; “I flatter myself that I am too good a judge of character to make that mistake.”