In the quiet of the room, that a moment before rang with excited voices and shrill laughter, the man’s husky, straining, whispered boast sounded like the mocking of some invisible, fiendish presence at the feast.

Lifting a glass of whisky with that yellow, claw-like hand upon which the great diamond gleamed—­a spot of flawless purity; with his repulsive features twisted into a grewsome ugliness by his straining effort to force his diseased vocal chords to make his words heard; the wretched creature said:  “Here’s to our girl musician.  The prettiest—­lassie that I—­have seen for many a day—­and I think I know a pretty girl—­when I see one too.  Who comes bright and fresh—­from her mountains, to amuse us—­and to add, to the beauty—­and grace and wit and genius—­that so distinguishes this company—­the flavor and the freedom of her wild-wood home.  Her music—­is good, you’ll all agree—­” he paused to cough and to look inquiringly around, while every one nodded approval and smiled encouragingly.  “Her music is good—­but I—­maintain that she, herself, is better.  To me—­her beauty is more pleasing to the eye—­than—­her fiddling can possibly—­be to the ear!” Again he was forced to pause, while his guests, with hand and voice, applauded the clever words.  Lifting the glass of whisky toward his lips that, by his effort to speak, were drawn back in a repulsive grin, he leered at the celebrities sitting nearest.  “I suppose to-morrow—­if we desire the company of these distinguished artists—­we will have to follow—­them to the mountains.  I don’t blame you, gentlemen—­if I was not—­ah—­temporarily incapacitated—­I would certainly—­go for a little trip to the inspiring hills—­myself.  Even if I don’t know—­as much about music and art as some of you.”  Again his words were interrupted by that racking cough, the sound of which was lost in the applause that greeted his witticism.  Lifting the glass once more, he continued, “So here’s to our girl musician—­who is her own—­lovely self so much more attractive than any music—­she can ever make.”  He drained the glass, and sank back into his chair, exhausted by his effort.

Aaron King was on the point of springing to his feet, when Conrad Lagrange caught his eye with a warning look.  Instantly, he remembered what the result would be if he should yield to his impulse.  Wild with indignation, rage, and burning shame, he knew that to betray himself would be to invite a thousand sneering questions and insinuations to besmirch the name of the girl he loved.

In the continued applause and laughter that followed the drinking of the millionaire’s toast, the artist caught the admiring words, “Bully old sport.”  “Isn’t he game?” “He has certainly traveled some pace in his day.”  “The girl is a beauty.”  “Let’s have her in again.”  This last expression was so insistently echoed that Mrs. Taine—­who, through it all, had been covertly watching Aaron King’s face, and whose eyes were blazing now with something more than the effect of the wine she had been drinking—­was forced to yield.  A servant left the room, and, a moment later, reappeared, followed by Sibyl.