"There is no question of the material that Fairlands has to offer, Mr.
King," returned the novelist, in his grim, sarcastic humor. "God! how I
envy you!" he added, with a flash of earnest passion. "You are young--You
are beginning your life work--You are looking forward to success--You--"

"I _must_ succeed"--the painter interrupted impetuously--"I must."

"Succeed in _what_? What do you mean by success?"

"Surely, _you_ should understand what I mean by success," the younger man
retorted. "You who have gained--"

"Oh, yes; I forgot"--came the quick interruption--"I am the _famous_
Conrad Lagrange. Of course, you, too, must succeed. You must become the
_famous_ Aaron King. But perhaps you will tell me why you must, as you
call it, succeed?"

The artist hesitated before answering; then said with anxious earnestness,
"I don't think I can explain Mr. Lagrange. My mother--" he paused.

The older man stopped short, and, turning, stood for a little with his
face towards the mountains where San Bernardino's pyramid-like peak was
thrust among the stars. When he spoke, every bit of that bitter humor was
gone from his deep voice. "I beg your pardon, Mr. King"--he said
slowly--"I am as ugly and misshapen in spirit as in body."

But when they had walked some way--again in silence--and were drawing near
the hotel, the momentary change in his mood passed. In a tone of stinging
sarcasm he said. "You are on the right road, Mr. King. You did well to
come to Fairlands. It is quite evident that you have mastered the modern