Once, the novelist asked with mock gravity, “Have you no thought for the day of judgment, young man?  Do you not know that your sins will surely find you out?”

The artist laughed.  “It is so written in the law, I believe.”

The other continued solemnly, “Your recklessness is only hastening the end.  If you don’t answer those letters you will be forced, shortly, to meet the consequences face to face.”

“I suppose so,” returned the painter, indifferently.  “But I have my answer ready, you know.”

“You mean that portrait?”

“Yes.”

The novelist laughed grimly.  “I think it will do the trick.  But, believe me, there will be consequences!”

The artist was in his studio, at work upon the big picture, when Mrs.
Taine called, the day of her return to Fairlands.

It was well on in the afternoon.  Conrad Lagrange and Czar had started for a walk, but had gone, as usual, only as far as the neighboring house.  Yee Kee, meeting Mrs. Taine at the door, explained, doubtfully, that the artist was at his work.  He would go tell Mr. King that Mrs. Taine was here.

“Never mind, Kee.  I will tell him myself,” she answered; and, before the Chinaman could protest, she was on her way to the studio.

“Damn!” said the Celestial eloquently; and retired to his kitchen to ruminate upon the ways of “Mellican women.”

Mrs. Taine pushed open the door of the studio, so quietly, that the painter, standing at his easel and engrossed with his work, did not notice her presence.  For several moments the woman stood watching him, paying no heed to the picture, seeing only the man.  When he did not look around, she said, “Are you too busy to even look at me?”

With an exclamation, he faced her; then, as quickly, turned again; with hand outstretched to draw the easel curtain.  But, as though obeying a second thought that came quickly upon the heels of the first impulse, he did not complete the movement.  Instead, he laid his palette and brushes beside his color-box, and greeted her with, “How do you do, Mrs. Taine?  When did you return to Fairlands?  Is Miss Taine with you?”

“Louise is abroad,” she answered.  “I—­I preferred California.  I arrived this afternoon.”  She went a step toward him.  “You—­you don’t seem very glad to see me.”

The painter colored, but she continued impulsively, without waiting for his reply.  “If you only knew all that I have been doing for you!—­the wires I have pulled; the influences I have interested; the critics and newspaper men that I have talked to!  Of course I couldn’t do anything in a large public way, so soon after Mr. Taine’s death, you know; but I have been busy, just the same, and everything is fixed.  When our picture is exhibited next season, you will find yourself not only a famous painter, but a social success as well.”  She paused.  When he still did not speak, she went on, with an air of troubled sadness; “I