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Page 97
Joan thought him as care-free as a boy.
"We dance in the club gallery," he told her, smiling at the look of
wonder in her eyes.
"And the paintings and sculpture?"
"A members' exhibition. The sculptured lion staring from his pedestal
at us is Jan's. Look at the superb muscle play of his flank! The
midsummer woods--see, how well the lad has painted _air_!--is Garry's.
And my pine picture's over there."
"And Sid?"
Kenny danced her the length of the gallery. A white line of sculpture
gleamed on either side behind a rail of brass.
"Down here," he said. "I saved it for the last. The beggar's
painted--me!"
It was Kenny in a painter's smock intent upon a palette, vividly,
whimsically, delightfully Kenny. There was tenderness and sympathy in
Sid's portrayal.
Joan clung to his hand in delight.
And was it all Bohemia, she asked.
Ah! admitted Kenny twinkling, there you had him. Bohemia, he fancied,
was always wherever you yourself were not. The men and women who did
big things were too busy for picturesque posing. Bohemia, as legend
read it, had to do with rags and dreams and ambition without effort, a
shabby, down-at-heel pretension that glittered without gratifying. The
Bohemians of to-day were the failures of to-morrow. And the crowd who
lived at the Holbein Club lived, loved, worked and died much in the
fashion of less gifted folk. If there was a Bohemia of success,
however, it danced here to-night.
But, girleen, the music was urging! And who could resist the sweet
wild delirium of a violin's call? Certainly not an Irishman intent
upon a moonbeam imprisoned in a girl's bright hair. But one sound
sweeter!
"And that?" asked Joan as they glided away again among the dancers.
Kenny threw back his head and his eyes laughed.
"A robin singing in a blackthorn!"
Joan smiled at the boyish sparkle of his face. He was so charmingly,
so irresponsibly young and gay.
His Bohemia of success she found a startling triumph.
"Joan's horribly disturbed," Ann telephoned in the morning. "As her
guardian you'll have to settle a number of infatuated young men. The
telephone's been ringing all morning. I think it's a case of 'The line
forms on the right, gentlemen, on the right!'"
Kenny faced the problem with his fingers in his hair.
"Who's bothering her?" he demanded bluntly.
"The Art Students' League," said Ann demurely, "the Federation of Arts,
National Society of Portrait Painters, Architectural League, Watercolor
Society, Authors' League and the Prince who thinks he's a playwright."
"He's a piece of cheese!" said Kenny in intense disgust. "What did
Joan think of him?"
"She said she didn't like him nearly so well as the art student who
plays a banjo in the orchestra because he needs the money. Peggy knows
him."
"That was wholesome," admitted Kenny. "But I don't think much of him
either. He has absolutely no right when he's playing a banjo
commercially to recognize the girls on the floor. I'll be over to
lunch."
It was a nerve-racking hour for Ann. Kenny, pensive, ate but little.
He seemed very sorry for himself and eyed Joan with melancholy
tenderness. When at last the dreadful subject was broached, Ann
stoutly defended everybody.
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