While the introductions wer#/belng
made l giancea wun eager curiosity
around the studio. It was my first
visit to a studio in Montmartre, and
1 must confess my first feeling was
one of disappointment—perhaps I had
unconsciously expected the luxurious
studio of the novel and the stage.
Afterwards I grew to love the bare
room, with its walls of an indeter
minate color, its one or two clilay*
dated chairs, its great easel and
the mysterious canvas backs of pic
tures faced toward the wall. There
were a few old and dingy costumes
flung on a ,chalr, , the one spot of
color and beauty in the room being
a lovely Spanish shawl. Nothing of
the “romantic” or ‘‘artistic" about
this studio, but a real workshop.
When I grew to konw It better it
seemed so saturated with the person-%
ality of Its ow'ners that I completely
forgot its bareness and dinginess.
