_do_ see the reason, and, still, produce a portrait that pleases your
sitter, then you will have paid the price; you will receive your reward;
and"--the speaker's tone grew sad and bitter--"you will be what I am."

With this, he arose abruptly and, without another word, stalked into the
hotel; the dog following with quiet dignity, at his heels.

From the beginning of their acquaintance, almost, the novelist and the
artist had dropped into the habit of taking their meals together. At
breakfast, the next morning, Conrad Lagrange reopened the conversation he
had so abruptly closed the night before. "I suppose," he said, "that you
will set up a studio, and do the thing in proper style?"

"Mrs. Taine told me of a place that is for rent, and that she thinks would
be just the thing," returned the young man. "It is across the road from
that big grove owned by Mr. Taine. I was wondering if you would care to
walk out that way with me this morning and help me look it over."

The older man's hearty acceptance of the invitation assured the artist of
his genuine interest, and, an hour later--after Aaron King had interviewed
the agent and secured the keys, with the privilege of inspecting the
premises--the two set out together.

They found the place on the eastern edge of the town; half-hidden by the
orange groves that surrounded it on every side. The height of the palms
that grew along the road in front, the pepper and eucalyptus trees that
overshadowed the house, and the size of the orange-trees that shut in the
little yard with walls of green, marked the place as having been
established before the wealth of the far-away East discovered the peculiar
charm of the Fairlands hills. The lawn, the walks, and the drive were