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The Barefoot Boy
(Biograph)
By DOROTHY DONNELL This story was written from the Photoplay of MRS. OWEN BRONSON
The air of the studio was as rarefied as that of Olympus, albeit to the lay mind somewhat lacking in oxygen. Joss-sticks, a quaint Persian rose-bowl ajar on its essence of memories, and the exotic-breathed draperies of the women visitors overburdened the atmosphere. Culture, rampant, moved slinkily from easel to easel. In the center of the room Art, in a velvet jacket and flowing tie, discoursed miserably and fluently of the Pre-Raphaelites with a bespectacled, large-toothed female in a vampire gown.
"He was a painter of soul-colors." the lady was saying — "of auras. The face, the form — what are they, dear Mr. Rives ? A mere nothing ; but the aura, ah ! that is everything. I myself have a faint green aura '
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"Er-r, yes, certainly," murmured the painter. His eyes, wandering from the bony fascinations of his companion, searched the group about the easel; then lightened as tho a shade were unrolled in their somber depths. With a hasty farewell to the green-auraed enchantress, he strode across the studio to where, in an embattled embrasure of disarrayed armor, a slender girl, in an expensively simple gown, was staring enraptured at nothing at all. Whispers and nudges followed him. The tranquil waters of conversation were roiled into muddy eddies of gossip.
"Absolutely crazy about her — any one can see that by his face."
"My dear, it's positively indecent to look so much in love before people. Anyhow, he's too poor for her."