suppose that for one of your nature it is natural."

Again, she received his words with that look of doubtful
understanding--as though sensing some meaning beneath the polite,
commonplace surface. Then, as if to lead away from the subject--"You must
really tell me what you think of our California home. I told you in New
York, you remember, that I should ask you, the first thing. We were so
sorry to have missed you last year. Please be frank. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Very beautiful"--he answered--"exquisite taste--perfect harmony with
modern art." His quizzing eyes twinkled, and a caricature of a smile
distorted his face. "It fairly smells to heaven of the flesh pots."

She laughed merrily. "The odor should not be unfamiliar to you," she
retorted. "By all accounts, your royalties are making you immensely rich.
How wonderful it must be to be famous--to know that the whole world is
talking about you! And that reminds me--who is your distinguished looking
friend at the hotel? I was dying to ask you, the other night, but didn't
dare. I know he is somebody famous."

Conrad Lagrange, studying her face, answered reluctantly, "No, he is not
famous; but I fear he is going to be."

"Another twisty saying," she retorted. "But I mean to have an answer, so
you may as well speak plainly. Have you known him long? What is his name?
And what is he--a writer?"

"His name is Aaron King. His mother and I grew up in the same
neighborhood. He is an artist."