If Conrad Lagrange noticed his companion’s manner he passed it by.  “I perceive,” he said, “that you are still somewhat lacking in the rudiments of your profession.  The statement of faith adhered to by modern climbers on the ladder of fame—­such as I have been, and you aspire to be—­is that ‘Pull’ wins.  Our creed is ‘Graft.’  By ‘Influence’ we stand, by ‘Influence’ we fall.  It pleases Mrs. Taine to be, in the world of art, a lobbyist.  She knows the insides of the inside rings and cliques and committees that say what is, and what is not, art; that declare who shall be, and who shall not be, artists.  She has power with those who, in their might, grant position and place in the halls of fame; as their kinsmen in the political world pass the plums to those who court their favor.  The great critics who thunder anathemas at the poor devils who are outside, eat out of her hand.  Jim Rutlidge and his unholy crew are at her beck and call.  Jim, you see, needing all he can get of the Taine millions, hopes to marry Louise.  You can scarcely blame the young and beautiful Mrs. Taine for not being interested in her husband—­who is going to die so soon.  The poor girl must have some amusement, so she interests herself in art, don’t you know.  She gives more dinners to artists and critics; buys more pictures and causes more pictures to be bought; mothers more art-culture clubs; discovers more new and startling geniuses; in short, has a larger and better trained company of lions than any one else in the business.  She deals in lions.  It’s her fad to collect them—­same as others collect butterflies or postage stamps.  She has one other fad that is less harmful and just as deceptive—­a carefully nourished reputation for prudery.  I sometimes think the Gods must laugh or choke.  That woman would no more speak to you without a proper introduction than she would appear on the street without shoes or stockings.  She has never been seen in an evening gown.  Her beautiful shoulders have never been immodestly bared to the eyes of the world.”

The artist thought of that moment on the observation car platform.

Presently, the novelist—­refilling his pipe—­said whimsically, “Some day, Mr. King, I shall write a true story.  It shall be a novel of to-day, with characters drawn from life; and these characters, in my story, shall bear the names of the forces that have made them what they are and which they, in turn, have come to represent.  I mean those forces that are so coloring and shaping the life and thought of this age.”

“That ought to be interesting,” said the other, “but I am not quite sure that I understand.”

“Probably you don’t.  You have not been thinking much of these things.  You have your eye upon Fame, and that old witch lives in another direction.  To illustrate—­our bull-necked friend and illustrious critic, James Rutlidge, in my story, will be named ‘Sensual.’  His distinguished father was one ‘Lust.’  The horrible example, Mr. Edward Taine,—­boon companion of ’Lust,’—­is ’Materialism’.”