“The same,” answered the other, with his twisted smile.  “I thought you would recognize his name.  As an artist, you will undoubtedly have much to do with him.  His friendship is one of the things that are vital to your success.  Believe me, his power in modern art is a red-faced, bull-necked power that you will do well to recognize.  Of his companions,” he went on, “the horrible example is Edward J. Taine—­friend and fellow martyr of James Rutlidge, Senior.  Satan, perhaps, can explain how he has managed to outlive his partner.  His home is in New York, but he has a big house on Fairlands Heights, with large orange groves in this district.  He comes here winters for his health.  He’ll die before long.  The effervescing young creature is his daughter, Louise—­by his first wife.  The ’Goddess’—­who is not much older than his daughter—­is the present Mrs. Taine.”

“His wife!”

The artist’s exclamation drew a sarcastic chuckle from the other.  “I am prepared, now, to testify to your unworldly innocence of heart and mind,” he gibed.  “And, pray, why not his wife?  You see, she was the ward of old Rutlidge—­a niece, it is said.  Mrs. Rutlidge—­as you have no doubt heard—­killed herself.  It was shortly after her death that Jim took this little one into his home.  She and young Jim grew up together.  What was more natural or fitting than that her guardian—­when he was about to depart from this sad world where human flesh is not able to endure an unlimited amount of dissipation—­should give the girl as a lively souvenir to his bosom friend and companion of his unmentionable deviltries?  The transaction also enabled him, you understand, to draw upon the Taine millions; and so permitted him to finish his distinguished career with credit.  You, with your artist’s extravagant fancy, have, no doubt, been thinking of her as fashioned for love.  I assure you she knows better.  The world in which she has been schooled has left her no hazy ideas as to what she was made for.”

“I have heard of the Taines,” said the younger man, thoughtfully.  “I suppose this is the same family.  They are very prominent in the social world, and quite generous patrons of the arts?”

“In the eyes of the world,” said the novelist, “they are the noblest of our Nobility.  They dwell in the rarefied atmosphere of millions.  By the dollarless multitudes they are envied.  They assume to be the cultured of the cultured.  Patrons of the arts!  Why, man, they have autographed copies of all my books! They and their kind feed me and my kind.  They will feed you, sir, or by God you’ll starve!  But you need have no fear that the crust of genius will be your portion,” he added meaningly.  “As I remarked—­the ‘Goddess’ has her eye upon you.”

“And why do you so distinguish the lady?” asked the artist, quietly amused—­with just a hint of well-bred condescension.  “Has Mrs. Taine such powerful influence in the world of art?”