As the novelist spoke, they heard the voices of Miss Taine and her escort,
James Rutlidge. Mrs. Taine had only time to shake a finger in playful
warning at her companion, and to whisper, "Mind you bring your artist to
me, or I'll get him when you're not looking; and listen, don't tell Jim
about him; I must see what he is like, first."

At lunch, the next day, Conrad Lagrange greeted the artist in his
bitterest humor. "And how is the famous Aaron King, to-day? I trust that
the greatest portrait painter of the age is well; that the hotel people
have been properly attentive to the comfort of their illustrious guest?
The world of art can ill afford to have its rarest genius suffer from any
lack of the service that is due his greatness."

The young man's face flushed at his companion's mocking tone; but he
laughed. "I missed you at breakfast."

"I was sleeping off the effect of my intellectual debauch--it takes time
to recover from a dinner with 'Materialism,' 'Sensual,' 'Ragtime' and 'The
Age'," the other returned, the menu in his hand. "What slop are they
offering to put in our troughs for this noon's feed?"

Again, Aaron King laughed. But as the novelist, with characteristic
comments and instructions to the waitress, ordered his lunch, the artist
watched him as though waiting with interest his further remarks on the
subject of his evening with the Taines.

When the girl was gone, Conrad Lagrange turned again to his companion, and
from under his scowling brows regarded him much as a withered scientist
might regard an interesting insect under his glass. "Permit me to
congratulate you," he said suggestively--as though the bug had succeeded