"His wife!"

The artist's exclamation drew a sarcastic chuckle from the other. "I am
prepared, now, to testify to your unworldly innocence of heart and mind,"
he gibed. "And, pray, why not his wife? You see, she was the ward of old
Rutlidge--a niece, it is said. Mrs. Rutlidge--as you have no doubt
heard--killed herself. It was shortly after her death that Jim took this
little one into his home. She and young Jim grew up together. What was
more natural or fitting than that her guardian--when he was about to
depart from this sad world where human flesh is not able to endure an
unlimited amount of dissipation--should give the girl as a lively souvenir
to his bosom friend and companion of his unmentionable deviltries? The
transaction also enabled him, you understand, to draw upon the Taine
millions; and so permitted him to finish his distinguished career with
credit. You, with your artist's extravagant fancy, have, no doubt, been
thinking of her as fashioned for _love_. I assure you _she_ knows better.
The world in which she has been schooled has left her no hazy ideas as to
what she was made for."

"I have heard of the Taines," said the younger man, thoughtfully. "I
suppose this is the same family. They are very prominent in the social
world, and quite generous patrons of the arts?"

"In the eyes of the world," said the novelist, "they are the noblest of
our Nobility. They dwell in the rarefied atmosphere of millions. By the
dollarless multitudes they are envied. They assume to be the cultured of
the cultured. Patrons of the arts! Why, man, _they have autographed copies
of all my books!_ They and their kind _feed_ me and my kind. They will
feed you, sir, or by God you'll starve! But you need have no fear that the