Patty Blossom Part 4

"What is it all?" he whispered; "a bear garden?"

"Hush, Phil, don't make me laugh. Did you ever see anything like it?"

"Well, I've been to Studio jinks, but they were to this as moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine! Shall I take you home?"

"No, indeed! I want to see the fun. I've never been to a Studio jinks,--or whatever you call it, and I want to live and learn."

"All right, Patty. You shall stay as long as you like, but I'll wager that inside of an hour you'll be begging me to get you out of it."

"All right, if I do, I shall expect you to take me away. Let's look at the room."

They sauntered about, and finally sat down on a Turkish divan, which proved much lower than they had antic.i.p.ated.

"What an uncomfortable thing!" said Patty, "but sit here a minute, while I look round."

From the ceiling hung Moorish-looking lamps, which gave almost no light, and, were of rather dilapidated appearance. The furniture, too, was not only antique, but wabbly-legged and here and there tied up with strings or leather thongs. Statuettes were about, broken and dusty; jugs and bowls of dull bra.s.s and copper; rickety screens; enormous unframed photographs, warped and faded, but bearing splashing and unintelligible autographs; and draperies of all sorts, from old shawls to tattered ecclesiastical robes.

"I see what Mr. Blaney meant by the key of saffron," said Patty, sagely. "Everything is that colour because of the acc.u.mulation of dust and dirt! I don't believe this place has ever had a good house-cleaning!"

"Oh, Patty, my dear child! Don't thus expose your ignorance! Bohemia never cleans house! The very thought is sacrilege!"

"Why is it? Some of this old bra.s.s stuff would be lovely if it were cleaned up. And look at that copper kettle! It's positively blue!"

"But that's what they want, dear," said Van Reypen, smiling at her.

"Howsumever, I'm glad you don't like it. We won't model our home on a Bohemian plan."

"And look at the people," went on Patty, in an awe-struck whisper.

"Some of them are decent, like our crowd,--but look at that girl in orange!"

The girl in question wore a costume of flame-coloured woolen material that was indeed striking. Her black hair was in two long braids, and she was carrying a small musical instrument that Philip said was a zithern.

"I don't know," he went on, "but I fancy she will play a sort of accompaniment to our host's poems. They generally work it that way."

"Stop making fun, Phil," reproved Patty; "perhaps the poems will be lovely,--with musical setting."

"Perhaps," said Philip.

CHAPTER III

PHILIP OBJECTS

The place became crowded. The two rooms occupied by the guests were small, and the party was a large one. Though not greatly attracted by the unusual sights and strange people, Patty was interested and curious. She wanted to see the affair in its entirety, and was glad when Sam Blaney came over to where she sat by Philip on the divan.

"I've come to carry you off," Blaney said to her; "you must mingle with the crowd, if you want to become one of us."

"I'd like to mingle a little," Patty replied, "but I can't hope to become one of such a talented bunch as this."

"They're not all so talented," Blaney a.s.sured her, as he led her away, leaving Philip a bit moody and disapproving.

"It's their clothes that astound me," said Patty. "Why do they wear such queer rigs? Almost like a masquerade or fancy-dress ball. You, for instance; why do you wear this Oriental robe and turban?"

"Now that you ask me, I don't believe I know! But it's habit, I think.

Yes, that's it, it's just habit. We who possess higher intellect than our fellows must differentiate ourselves in some way from them, and how else but by a difference of raiment?"

"Well, that does explain it, but why such queer raiment? Why not beautiful garments instead of eccentric ones?"

"Ah, that's just it! They are beautiful, only you're not of sufficient intelligence to appreciate their beauty."

"What!" cried Patty, scarcely able to believe she had heard aright, "I'm not intelligent enough----"

"Oh, don't get miffed. Your natural intelligence is all right, you've plenty of it. But it needs education,--bending in the right direction, you know. And I'm going to educate you. You're the most promising subject I've ever seen. I'll make a priestess of you,--a shining light,--a prophetess----"

Patty giggled. "If I'm a priestess I may as well be a prophetess, I suppose. When do these lessons begin?"

"Now. They have begun. You are unconsciously absorbing this atmosphere. You are involuntarily becoming more and more of our cult,--of our inspirations. You are evolving,--you don't realise it, but you are evolving----"

"I shall be revolving, if I don't get some fresh air! Why must you have these incense things smoking, not to mention some of the guests smoking also, and, incidentally, that Moorish lamp is smoking badly! I _am_ absorbing your atmosphere, and it is choking me!"

Patty was in earnest, though she spoke lightly. The unpleasant air filled her lungs, and she wanted pure oxygen.

"Oh, all right," and Blaney laughed, indulgently. "You can't expect to achieve all at once. Come, we'll step out on the veranda for a whiff of outdoors, and then come back for the program."

"There's to be a program?"

"Oh, yes. Most wonderful work, by genius itself. Now, please, Miss Fairfield, don't resist the influence."

They were out on the tiny veranda that graced the Blaney's dwelling.

The stars shone down through the pure winter air, and Patty felt as if she had been rescued from a malarial swamp. But Blaney was impressive.

His deep, soft voice persuaded her against her will that she was pettish and crude to rebel at the unwholesome atmosphere inside. "You don't understand," he said gently. "Give us a fair trial. That's all I ask. I know your inner nature will respond, if you give it its freedom. Ah, freedom! That's all we aim for,--all we desire."

Through the window, Patty heard the sound of weird strains of music.

"Come on," she cried, "I do want to see this thing through. If that's the program beginning, take me in. I want to hear it."

They returned to the Studio, and Blaney found two seats which commanded a view of the platform. The seats were uncomfortable, being small wooden stools, and the air was still clouded with smoke of various sorts. But, determinedly, Patty prepared to listen to the revelations that awaited her. She had long had a curiosity to know what "Bohemia"

meant, and now she expected to find out. They were nowhere near their own crowd. In fact, she couldn't see Elise or Mona, though Philip was visible between some rickety armour and a tattered curtain. Very handsome he looked, too, his dark, and just now gloomy, face thrown into relief by the "artistic" background.

"Apparently, Mr. Van Reypen is not enjoying himself," Blaney commented, with a quiet chuckle. "He's not our sort."

This remark jarred upon Patty, and she was about to make a spirited retort, when the music began.

A girl was at the piano. Her gown, of burlaps, made Patty think it had been made from an old coffee sack. But it had a marvelous sash of flaming vermilion velvet, edged with gold fringe, and in her black hair was stuck a long, bright red quill feather, that gave her an Indian effect.

"I think her gown is out of key," Patty whispered, "and I am sure her music is!"