At her signal, a servant left the room.  A moment later, the mountain girl, dressed in simple white, with no jewel or ornament other than a rose in her soft, brown hair, stood before that company.  Unconscious of the eyes that fed upon her loveliness; there was the faintest shadow of a smile upon her face as she met, in one swift glance, the artist’s look; then, raising her violin, she made music for the revelers, at the will of Mrs. Taine.  As she stood there in the modest naturalness of her winsome beauty—­innocent and pure as the flowers that formed the screen behind her; hired to amuse the worthy friends and guests of that hideously repulsive devotee of lust and licentiousness who, from his wheeled chair, was glaring at her with eyes that burned insanely—­she seemed, as indeed she was, a spirit from another world.

James Rutlidge, his heavy features flushed with drink, was gazing at the girl with a look that betrayed his sensual passion.  The face of Conrad Lagrange was dark and grim with scowling appreciation of the situation.  Mrs. Taine was looking at the artist.  And Aaron King, watching his girl comrade of the hills as she seemed to listen for the music which she in turn drew from the instrument, felt,—­by the very force of the contrast between her and her surroundings he had never felt before, the power and charm of her personality—­felt—­and knew that Sibyl Andres had come into his life to stay.

In the flood of emotions that swept over him, and in the mental and spiritual exultation caused by her music and by her presence amid such scenes; it was given the painter to understand that she had, in truth, brought to him the strength, the purity, and the beauty of the hills; that she had, in truth, shown him the paths that lead to the mountain heights; that it was her unconscious influence and teaching that had made it impossible for him to prostitute his genius to win favor in the eyes of the world.  He knew, now, that in those days when he had painted her portrait, as she stood with outstretched hands in the golden light among the roses, he had mixed his colors with the best love that a man may offer a woman.  And he knew that the repainting of that false portrait of Mrs. Taine, with all that it would cost him, was his first offering to that love.

The girl musician finished playing and slipped away.  When they would have recalled her, Mrs. Taine—­too well schooled to betray a hint of the emotions aroused by what she had just seen as she watched Aaron King—­shook her head.

At that instant, Mr. Taine rose to his feet, supporting himself by holding with shaking hands to the table.  A hush, sudden as the hush of death, fell upon the company.  The millionaire’s attendant put out his hand to steady his master, and another servant stepped quickly forward.  But the man who clung so tenaciously to his last bit of life, with a drunken strength in his dying limbs, shook them off, saying in a hoarse whisper, “Never mind!  Never mind—­you fools—­can’t you see I’m game!”