Turning to the artist, imploringly, she whispered, “Is it—­is it—­true?  Am I—­am I that?”

Aaron King, remembering how she had sent the girl he loved so nearly to a shameful end, and thinking of those bones at the foot of the cliff, answered justly; “At least, madam, there is more truth in that picture than in the things you said to Miss Andres, here in this room, the day you left Fairlands.”

Her face went white with quick rage, but, controling herself, she said, “And where is the picture of your mistress?  I should like to see it again, please.”

“Gladly, madam,” returned the artist.  “Because you are a woman, it is the only answer I can make to your charge; which, permit me to say, is as false as that portrait of you is true.”

Quickly he pushed another easel to a position beside the one that held Mrs. Taine’s portrait, and drew the curtain.

The effect, for a moment, silenced even Mrs. Taine—­but only for a moment.  A character that is the product of certain years of schooling in the thought and spirit of the class in which Mrs. Taine belonged, is not transformed by a single exhibition of painted truth.  From the two portraits, the woman turned to the larger canvas.  Then she faced the artist.

“You fool!” she said with bitter rage.  “O you fool!  Do you think that you will ever be permitted to exhibit such trash as this?” she waved her hand to include the three paintings.  “Do you think that I am going to drag you up the ladder of social position to fame and to wealth for such reward as that?” she singled out her own portrait.  “Bah! you are impossible—­impossible!  I have been mad to think that I could make anything out of you.  As for your idiotic claim that you have painted the truth—­” She seized a large palette knife that lay with the artist’s tools upon the table, and springing to her portrait, hacked and mutilated the canvas.  The artist stood motionless making no effort to stop her.  When the picture was utterly defaced she threw it at his feet. “That, for your truth, Mr. King!” With a quick motion, she turned toward the other portrait.

But the artist, who had guessed her purpose, caught her hand.  “That picture was yours, madam—­this one is mine.”  There was a significant ring of triumph in his voice.

Neither Aaron King nor Mrs. Taine had noticed three people who had entered the rose garden, from the orange grove, through the little gate in the corner of the hedge.  Conrad Lagrange, Myra Willard and Sibyl were going to the studio; deliberately bent upon interrupting the artist at his work.  They sometimes—­as Conrad Lagrange put it—­made, thus, a life-saving crew of three; dragging the painter to safety when the waves of inspiration were about to overwhelm him.  Czar, of course, took an active part in these rescues.

As the three friends approached the trellised arch that opened from the garden into the yard, a few feet from the studio door, the sound of Mrs. Taine’s angry voice, came clearly through the open window.