do it."

The artist flung out his hand in protest as he rose from his chair to pace
up and down the porch. "Don't, Lagrange, don't! I can't stand it, just
now."

"All right." said the other, heartily, "I won't." Rising, he put his hand
on his friend's shoulder. "Come, let's go for a look at the roses, before
Yee Kee calls us to dinner."

In the garden, the artist's eye caught sight of something white lying in
the well-kept path. With an exclamation, he went quickly to pick it up. It
was a dainty square of lace--a handkerchief--with an exquisitely
embroidered "S" in the corner.

The two men looked at each other in silence; with smiling, questioning
eyes.

Chapter VIII

The Portrait That Was Not a Portrait

Aaron King was putting the last touches to his portrait of the woman
who--Conrad Lagrange said--was the personification of the age.

From that evening when the young man told his friend the story of his
mother's sacrifice, their friendship had become like that friendship which
passeth the love of women. While the novelist, true to his promise, did
not cease to flay his younger companion--for the good of the artist's
soul--those moments when his gentler moods ruled his speech were, perhaps,
more frequent; and the artist was more and more learning to appreciate the
rare imagination, the delicacy of feeling, the intellectual brilliancy,
and the keenness of mental vision that distinguished the man whose life
was so embittered by the use he had made of his own rich gifts.

The novelist steadily refused to look at the picture while the work was in
progress. He said, bluntly, that he preferred to run no risk of
interfering with the young man's chance for fame; and that it would be
quite enough for him to look upon his friend's shame when it was
accomplished; without witnessing the process in its various stages. The
artist laughed to hide the embarrassing fact that he was rather pleased
to be left to himself with this particular picture.

Conrad Lagrange did not, however, refuse to accompany his friend,
occasionally, to the house on Fairlands Heights; where the painter
continued to spend much of his time. When Mrs. Taine made mocking
references to the novelist's promise not to leave the artist unprotected
to her tender mercies, he always answered with some--as she said--twisty
saying; to the effect that the present situation in no way lessened his
determination to save the young man from the influences th