“You’ve done it! man—­you’ve done it!  It’s all there; every rotten, stinking shred of it!  Wow! but it’s good—­so damned good that it’s almost inhuman.  I knew you had it in you.  I knew it was in you, all the time—­if only you could come alive.  God, man! if that could only be exhibited alongside the other!  Look here!”

He dragged the easel that held Sibyl Andres’ portrait to a place beside the one upon which the canvas just finished rested, and drew back the curtain.  The effect was startling.

“‘The Spirit of Nature’ and ’The Spirit of the Age’,” said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone.

“But you’re ruined, my boy,” he added gleefully.  “You’re ruined.  These canvases will never be exhibited Her own, she’ll smash when she sees it; and you’ll be artistically damned by the very gods she has invoked to bless you with fame and wealth.  Lord, but I envy you!  You have your chance now—­a real chance to be worthy your mother’s sacrifice.

“Come on, let’s get ready for the feast.”

Chapter XXIX

The Hand Writing on the Wall

It was November.  Nearly a year had passed since that day when the young man on the Golden State Limited—­with the inheritance he had received from his mother’s dying lips, and with his solemn promise to her still fresh in his mind—­looked into the eyes of the woman on the platform of the observation car.  That same day, too, he first saw the woman with the disfigured face, and, for the first time, met the famous Conrad Lagrange.

Aaron King was thinking of these things as he set out, that evening, with his friend, for the home of Mrs. Taine.  He remarked to the novelist that the time seemed, to him, many years.

“To me, Aaron,” answered the strange man, “it has been the happiest and—­if you would not misunderstand me—­the most satisfying year of my life.  And this”—­he added, his deep voice betraying his emotion—­“this has been the happiest day of the year.  It is your independence day.  I shall always celebrate it as such—­I—­I have no independence day of my own to celebrate, you know.”

Aaron King did not misunderstand.

As the two men approached the big house on Fairlands Heights, they saw that modern palace, from concrete foundation to red-tiled roof, ablaze with many lights.  Situated upon the very topmost of the socially graded levels of Fairlands, it outshone them all; and, quite likely, the glittering display was mistaken by many dwellers in the valley below for a new constellation of the heavenly bodies.  Quite likely, too, some lonely dweller, high up among the distant mountain peaks, looked down upon the sparkling bauble that lay for the moment, as it were, on the wide lap of the night, and smiled in quiet amusement that the earth children should attach such value to so fragile a toy.

As they passed the massive, stone pillars of the entrance to the grounds, Conrad Lagrange said, “Really, Aaron, don’t you feel a little ashamed of yourself?—­coming here to-night, after the outrageous return you have made for the generous hospitality of these people?  You know that if Mrs. Taine had seen what you have done to her portrait, you could force the pearly gates easier than you could break in here.”