e game
you have taught me to play. That's the game we have played together.
That's the game we and our kind insist the artists and writers shall help
us play. That's the only game I know, and, by the rule of our game, so
long as the world sees nothing, I shall do what pleases me.

"You have had your day with me. You have had what you paid for. What right
have you to deny me, now, an hour's forgetfulness? When I think of what I
might have been, but for you, I wonder that I have cared to live, and I
would not--except for the poor sport of torturing you.

"You scoff at Mr. King's portrait of me because he has not painted me as I
am! What would you have said if he _had_ painted me as I am? What would
you say if Conrad Lagrange should write the truth about us and our kind,
for his millions of readers? You sneer at me because I cannot uncover my
shoulders in the conventional dress of my class, and so make a virtue of a
necessity and deceive the world by a pretense of modesty. Go look in your
mirror, you fool! Your right to sneer at me for my poor little pretense is
denied you by every line of your repulsive countenance Now get out. I'm
going to retire."

And she rang for her maid.

Chapter XII

First Fruits of His Shame

When the postman, in his little cart, stopped at the home of Aaron King
and his friend, that day, it was Conrad Lagrange who received the mail.
The artist was in his studio, and the novelist, knowing that the painter
was not at work, went to him there with a letter.

The portrait--still on the easel--was hidden by the velvet curtain.
Sitting by a table that was littered with a confusion of sketches, books
and papers, the young man was re-tying a package of old letters that he
had, evidently, just been reading.

As the novelist went to him, the artist said quietly,--indicating the
package in his hand,--"From my mother. She wrote them during the last year
of my study abroad." When the other did not reply, he continued
thoughtfully, "Do you know, Lagrange, since my acquaintance with you, I
find many things in these old letters that--at the time I received them--I
did not, at all, appreciate. You seem to be helping me, somehow, to a
better understanding of my mother's spirit and mind." He smiled.

Presently, Conrad Lagrange, when he could trust himself to speak, said,
"Your mother's mind and spirit, Aaron, were too fine and rare to be fully
appreciated or understood except by one trained in th