Chapter XXVII

The Answer

When Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange entered the house to meet their callers from Fairlands Heights, the artist felt, oddly, that he was meeting a company of strangers.

The carefully hidden, yet—­to him—­subtly revealed, warmth of Mrs. Taine’s greeting embarrassed him with a momentary sense of shame.  The frothing gush of Louise’s inane ejaculations, and the coughing, choking, cursing of Mr. Taine,—­whose feeble grip upon the flesh that had so betrayed him was, by now, so far loosed that he could scarcely walk alone,—­set the painter struggling for words that would mean nothing—­the only words that, under the circumstances, could serve.  Aaron King was somewhat out of practise in the use of meaningless words, and the art of talking without saying anything is an art that requires constant exercise if one would not commit serious technical blunders.  James Rutlidge’s greeting was insolently familiar; as a man of certain mind greets—­in public—­a boon companion of his private and unmentionable adventures.  Toward the great critic, the painter exercised a cool self-restraint that was at least commendable.

While Aaron King, with James Rutlidge and Mr. Taine, with carefully assumed interest, was listening to Louise’s effort to make a jumble of “ohs” and “ahs” and artistic sighs sound like a description of a sunset in the mountains, Mrs. Taine said quietly to Conrad Lagrange, “You certainly have taken excellent care of your protege, this summer.  He looks splendidly fit.”

The novelist, watching the woman whose eyes, as she spoke, were upon the artist, answered, “You are pleased to flatter me, Mrs. Taine.”

She turned to him, with a knowing smile.  “Perhaps I am giving you more credit than is due.  I understand Mr. King has not been in your care altogether.  Shame on you, Mr. Lagrange! for a man of your age and experience to permit your charge to roam all over the country, alone and unprotected, with a picturesque mountain girl!—­and that, after your warning to poor me!”

Conrad Lagrange smiled grimly.  “I confess I thought of you in that connection several times.”

She eyed him doubtfully.  “Oh, well,” she said easily, “I suppose artists must amuse themselves, occasionally—­the same as the rest of us.”

“I don’t think that, ‘amuse’ is exactly the word, Mrs. Taine,” the other returned coldly.

“No?  Surely you don’t meant to tell me that it is anything serious?”

“I don’t mean to tell you anything about it,” he retorted rather sharply.

She laughed.  “You don’t need to.  Jim has already told me quite enough.  Mr. King, himself, will tell me more.”

“Not unless he’s a bigger fool than I think,” growled the novelist.

Again, she laughed into his face, mockingly.  “You men are all more or less foolish when there’s a woman in the case, aren’t you?”