Tea would help, he was thinking, half choked with the dust, and sick to death of Mamie's enthusiastic pushing sounds, when, without warning, there was a scamper of feet on the stairs, and an apparition on the balcony. Over the beautiful forged iron railing Olga was leaning, all smiles and capers, blowing kisses down to them,—Columbine returned. Harlequin on a creaking ladder. Moi, thought Grover, je suis le triste Pierrot.
She came running down into the studio, shook hands with Mamie and himself, then stepped up to kiss the sculptor who was restoring a damp cloth to a head of clay. She received Hellgren's caress with a frisk, and never had Grover watched tokens of domestic affection which he so abjectly failed to relish.
"Come down at once," Olga scolded, "and stop talking about your dreadful gravestones, or we'll have tea without you."
She took Mamie by the arm,—a most hospitable concession,—and Grover stood waiting for Hellgren to descend. Though the sculptor still abounded in theories, some of which he got off as they paused before figures blocking their progress, they eventually made their way up the stairs and into a small salon which was as French as the studio was Swedish.
Tucked into a chintz-covered chair which displayed a pattern of impressionistic grapes and apricots, pale shades which by contrast gave life to her own ivory, honey, and amethyst, and dressed in the simple fashion
