The girl was greeted, now, by hearty applause which she, accepting as an expression of the company’s appreciation of her music, received with smiling pleasure.  The artist, his heart and soul aflame with his awakening love, fought for self-control.  Conrad Lagrange, catching his eye, again, silently bade him wait.

Sibyl lifted her violin and the noisy company was stilled.  Slowly, under the spell of the music that, to him, was a message from the mountain heights, Aaron King grew calm.  His tense muscles relaxed.  His twitching nerves became steady.  He felt himself as it were, lifted out of and above the scene that a moment before had so stirred him to indignant anger.  His brain worked with that clearness and precision which he had known while repainting Mrs. Taine’s portrait.  Wrath gave way to pity; indignation to contempt.  In confidence, he smiled to think how little the girl he loved needed his poor defense against the animalism that dominated the company she was hired to amuse.  With every eye in the room fixed upon her as she played, she was as far removed from those who had applauded the suggestive words of the dying sensualist as her music was beyond their true comprehension.

Then it was that the genius of the artist awoke.  As the flash of a search-light in the darkness of night brings out with startling clearness the details of the scene upon which it is turned, the painter saw before him his picture.  With trained eye and carefully acquired skill, he studied the scene; impressing upon his memory every detail—­the rich appointments of the room; the glittering lights; the gleaming silver and crystal; the sparkling jewels and shimmering laces; the bare shoulders; the wine-flushed faces and feverish eyes; and, in the seat of honor, the disease-wasted form and repulsive, sin-marked countenance of Mr. Taine who—­almost unconscious with his exertion—­was still feeding the last flickering flame of his lustful life with the vision of the girl whose beauty his toast had profaned:  and in the midst of that company—­expressing as it did the spirit of an age that is ruled by material wealth and dominated by the passions of the flesh—­the center of every eye, yet, still, in her purity and innocence, removed and apart from them all; standing in her simple dress of white against the background of flowers—­the mountain girl with her violin—­offering to them the highest, holiest, gift of the gods—­her music.  Upon the girl’s lovely, winsome face, was a look, now, of troubled doubt.  Her wide, blue eyes, as she played, were pleading, questioning, half fearful—­as though she sensed, instinctively the presence of the spirit she could not understand; and felt, in spite of the pretense of the applause that had greeted her, the rejection of her offering.

Not only did the artist, in that moment of conception see his picture and feel the forces that were expressed by every character in the composition, but the title, even, came to him as clearly as if Conrad Lagrange had uttered it aloud, “The Feast of Materialism.”