Conrad Lagrange stopped.  “Evidently, Mr. King has company,” he said, dryly.

“It is Mrs. Taine, is it not?” asked Sibyl, quietly, recognizing the woman’s voice.

“Yes,” answered the novelist.

The woman with the disfigured face said hurriedly, “Come, Sibyl, we must go back.  We will not disturb Mr. King, now, Mr. Lagrange.  You two come over this evening.”  They saw her face white and frightened.

“I believe I’ll go back with you, if you don’t mind,” returned Conrad Lagrange, with his twisted grin; “I don’t think I want any of that in there, either.”  To the dog who was moving toward the studio door, he added; “Here, Czar, you mustn’t interrupt the lady.  You’re not in her class.”

They were moving away, when Mrs. Taine’s voice came again, clearly and distinctly, through the window.

“Oh, very well.  I wish you joy of your possession.  I promise you, though, that the world shall never hear of this portrait of your mistress.  If you dare try to exhibit it, I shall see that the people to whom you must look for your patronage know how you found the original, an innocent, mountain girl, and brought her to your studio to live with you.  Fairlands has already talked enough, but my influence has prevented it from going too far.  You may be very sure that from now on I shall not exert myself to deny it.”

The artist’s friends in the rose garden, again, stopped involuntarily.  Sibyl uttered a low exclamation.

Conrad Lagrange looked at Myra Willard.  “I think,” he said in a low tone, “that the time has come.  Can you do it?”

“Yes.  I—­I—­must,” returned the woman.  She spoke to the girl, who, being a little in advance, had not heard the novelist’s words, “Sibyl, dear, will you go on home, please?  Mr, Lagrange will stay with me.  I—­I will join you presently.”

At a look from Conrad Lagrange, the girl obeyed.

“Go with Sibyl, Czar,” said the novelist; and the girl and the dog went quickly away through the garden.

In the studio, Aaron King gazed at the angry woman in amazement.  “Mrs. Taine,” he said, with quiet dignity, “I must tell you that I hope to make Miss Andres my wife.”

She laughed harshly.  “And what has that to do with it?”

“I thought that if you knew, it might help you to understand the situation,” he answered simply.

“I understand the situation, very well,” she retorted, “but you do not appear to.  The situation is this:  I—­I was interested in you—­as an artist.  I, because my position in the world enabled me to help you, commissioned you to paint my portrait.  You are unknown, with no name, no place in the world.  I could have given you success.  I could have introduced you to the people that you must know if you are to succeed.  My influence would insure you a favorable reception from those who make the reputations of men like you.  I could have made you the rage.  I could have made you famous.  And now—­”