"I'm not well up in the latest artistic soul-expansion. It's a long way to Greenwich Village from here."
The Count looked at him again.
"You have the appreciation," he said; "I did not expect it. You know New-York? You know The Artistic? You paint, perhaps?"
"I write unpopular books," said Jim.
"You write?" said the Russian. "It is The Artistic Appreciation, however. I must ask to apologize to the ladies for my manner. I supposed you to be of the people—impossible of explaining my art."
He produced a card from his pocket and extended it between two fingers. Jim glanced at it and, with a bow to the Russian, handed it to Elspeth. Comte Jean de Stysalski, the engraving ran.
"I prefer the French," said the Count; "my full name in my own language is of great len'th. One pronounces it St'zalky, mesdames."
"Have you finished your sketch?" Joan asked. "I should so like to hear your idea of what a sketch should be."
"It should embody the Soul," said the Count promptly, painting vermilion streaks on the
