The young man, quietly ignoring the humor of the novelist’s words, said protestingly, “But, surely, to portray human nature is legitimate art, Mr. Lagrange.  Your great artists that the West is to produce will not necessarily be landscape painters or write essays upon nature, will they?”

“To portray human nature is legitimate work for an artist, yes”—­agreed the novelist—­“but he must portray human nature plus.  The forces that shape human nature are the forces that must be felt in the picture and in the story.  That these determining forces are so seldom seen by the eyes of the world, is the reason for pictures and stories.  The artist who fails to realize for his world the character-creating elements in the life which he essays to paint or write, fails, to just that degree, in being an artist; or is self-branded by his work as criminally careless, a charlatan or a liar.  That one who, for a price, presents a picture or a story without regard for the influence of his production upon the characters of those who receive it, commits a crime for which human law provides no adequate punishment.  Being the famous Conrad Lagrange, you understand, I have the right to say this.  You will probably believe it, some day—­if you do not now.  That is, you will believe it if you have the soul and the intelligence of an artist—­if you have not—­it will not matter—­and you will be happy in your success.”

As the novelist finished speaking, the two men arrived at the hotel steps, where they halted, with that indecision of chance acquaintances who have no plans beyond the passing moment, yet who, in mutual interest, would extend the time of their brief companionship.  While they stood there, each hesitating to make the advance, a big touring car rolled up the driveway, and stopped under the full light of the veranda.  Aaron King recognized the lady of the observation car platform, with her two traveling companions and the heavy-faced man who had met them at the depot.  As the party greeted the novelist and he returned their salutation, the artist turned away to find again the chair, where, an hour before, the strange character who was to play so large a part in his life and work had found him.  The dog, Czar, as if preferring the companionship of the artist to the company of those who were engaging his master’s attention, followed the young man.

From where he sat, the painter could see the tall, uncouth figure of the famous novelist standing beside the automobile, while the occupants of the car were, apparently, absorbingly interested in what he was saying.  The beautiful face of the woman was brightly animated as she evidently took the lead in the conversation.  The artist could see her laughing and shaking her head.  Once, he even heard her speak the writer’s name; whereupon, every lounger upon the veranda, within hearing, turned to observe the party with curious interest.  Several times, the young man noted