"That depends upon what you consider complimentary," retorted the other.
"As I told you--Aaron King is an artist."

Again, she favored him with that look of doubtful understanding; shaking
her head with mock sadness, and making a long sigh. "Another twister"--she
said woefully--"just when we were getting along so beautifully, too.
Won't you try again?"

"In words of one syllable then--let him alone. He is, to-day, exactly
where I was twenty years ago. For God's sake, let him alone. Play your
game with those who are no loss to the world; or with those who, like me,
are already lost. Let this man do his work. Don't make him what I am."

"Oh dear, oh dear," she laughed, "and these are words of one syllable! You
talk as though I were a dreadful dragon seeking a genius to devour!"

"You are," said the novelist, gruffly.

"How nice. I'm all shivery with delight, already. You really _must_ bring
him now, you see. You might as well, for, if you don't, I'll manage some
other way when you are not around to protect him. You don't want to trust
him to me unprotected, do you?"

"No, and I won't," retorted Conrad Lagrange--which, though Mrs. Taine did
not remark it, was also a twister.

"But after all, perhaps he won't come," she said with mock anxiety.

"Don't worry madam--he's just as much a fool as the rest of us."