t be altogether safe?" He reflected doubtfully.

"Why, of course,--Mr. Taine, Louise, and Jim,--we are all going
together--don't you see? I don't believe you want to go," she pouted. "I
believe you want to forget."

Her alluring manner, the invitation conveyed in her words and voice, the
touch of her hand on his arm, and the nearness of her person, fairly swept
the man off his feet. With quick passion, he caught her hand, and his
words came with reckless heat. "You know that I will not forget you. You
know that I could not, if I would. Do you think that I have been so
engrossed with my brushes and canvas that I have been unconscious of you?
What is that painted thing beside your own beautiful self? Do you think
that because I must turn myself into a machine to make a photograph of
your beauty, I am insensible to its charm? I am not a machine. I am a man;
as you are a woman; and I--"

She checked him suddenly--stepping aside with a quick movement, and the
words, "Hush, some one is coming."

The artist, too, heard voices, just without the door.

Mrs. Taine moved swiftly across the room toward her wrap. Aaron King,
going to his easel, drew the velvet curtain to hide the picture.

Chapter IX

Conrad Lagrange's Adventure

Certainly, when Conrad Lagrange fled so precipitately from Louise Taine,
that afternoon, he had no thought that the trivial incident was to mark
the beginning of a new era in his life; or that it would work out in the
life of his dearest friend such far reaching results. His only purpose was
to escape an hour of the frothy vaporings of the poor, young creature who
believed herself so interested in art and letters, and who succeeded so
admirably in expressing the spirit of her environment and training.

With his pipe and book, the novelist hid himself in the rose garden;
finding a seat on the ground, in an angle of the studio wall and the
Ragged Robin hedge, where any one entering the enclosure would be least
likely to observe him. Czar, heartily approving of his master's action,
stretched himself comfortably under the nearest rose-bush, and waited
further developments.

Presently, the novelist heard his friend, with Mrs. Taine, come from the
house and enter the studio. For a moment, he entertained the uncomfortable
fear that the artist, in a spirit of sheer boyish fun that so often moved
him, would bring Mrs. Taine to the garden. But the moment passed, and the
novelist,--mentally blessi