u are
a great artist and all the great and famous people go to you to have their
portraits painted--will you remember poor me, I wonder?"

"Am I really going to be famous?" he returned doubtfully. "Are you so sure
that this picture will mean success?"

"Of course I am sure--I _know_. You want to succeed don't you?"

Aaron King returned her look, for a moment, without answering. Then, with
a quick, fierce determination that betrayed a depth of feeling she had
never before seen in him, he exclaimed, "Do I want to succeed! I--I must
succeed. I tell you I _must_."

And the woman answered very softly, with her hand upon his arm, "And you
shall--you shall."

* * * * *

Conrad Lagrange and Czar found the artist on the front porch, pulling
moodily at his pipe.

"Is it all over for to-day?" asked the novelist as he stood looking down
upon the young man with that peculiarly piercing, baffling gaze.

"All over," replied the artist, answering the greeting thrust of Czar's
muzzle against his knee, with caressing hand. "Where did you fly to?"

The other dropped into a chair. "I would fly anywhere to escape being
entertained by that Ragtime' piece of human nonentity--Louise Taine. I
saw them coming, just in time." He was filling his pipe as he spoke. "And
how did the work go?"

"All right," replied the painter, indifferently.

The older man shot a curious sidewise glance at his moody companion; then,
striking a match, he gave careful attention to his pipe. Watching the
cloud of blue smoke, he said quizzingly, "I suppose 'Her Majesty' was
royally apparelled for the occasion-properly arrayed in purple and fine
linen; as befits the dignity of her state?"

The artist turned at the mocking, suggestive tone and answered savagely,
"I suppose you have got to know, damn you! I'm painting her as a Quaker
Maiden."

Conrad Lagrange's reply was as surprising in its way as was the outburst
of the artist. Instead of the tirade of biting sarcasm and stinging abuse
that the painter expected, the older man only gazed at him from under his
scowling brows and, shaking his head, sadly, said with sincere regret and
understanding "You poor fellow! It must be hell." Then, as his keen mind
grasped the full significance of the artist's words, he murmured
meditatively, "The personification of the age masquerading in Quaker
gray--Shades of the giants who used to be! What an opportunity--if you
only had the nerve to