Conrad Lagrange smiled.  “Perhaps,” he admitted whimsically.  “No doubt good may sometimes be accomplished by the presentation of a horrible example.  But go on with your private exhibition.  I’ll not keep you longer.  Come, Czar.”

In spite of the artist’s protests, he left the studio.

While the painter was putting away his letters, the novelist and the dog went through the rose garden and the orange grove, straight to the little house next door.  They walked as though on a definite mission.

Sibyl and Myra Willard were sitting on the porch.

“Howdy, neighbor,” called the girl, as the tall, ungainly form of the famous novelist appeared.  “You seem to be the bearer of news.  What is the latest word from the seat of war?”

“It is finished,” said Conrad Lagrange, returning Myra’s gentle greeting, and accepting the chair that Sibyl offered.

“The picture?” said the girl eagerly, a quick color flushing her cheeks.  “Is the picture finished?”

“Finished,” returned the novelist.  “I just left him mooning over it like a mother over a brand-new baby.”

They laughed together, and when, a moment later, the girl slipped into the house and did not return, the woman with the disfigured face and the famous novelist looked at each other with smiling eyes.  When Czar, with sudden interest, started around the corner of the house, his master said suggestively, “Czar, you better stay here with the old folks.”

Passing through the house, and out of the kitchen door, Sibyl ran, lightly, through the orange grove, to the little gate in the corner of the Ragged Robin hedge.  A moment she paused, hesitating, then, stealing cautiously into the rose garden, she darted in quick flight to the shelter of the arbor; where she parted the screen of vines to gain a view of the studio.

Between the big, north window and the window that opened into the garden, she saw the artist.  She saw, too, the big canvas upon the easel.  But Aaron King was not, now, looking at his work just finished.  He was sitting before that other picture into which he had unconsciously painted, not only the truth that he saw in the winsome loveliness of the girl who posed for him with outstretshed hands among the roses, but his love for her as well.

With a low laugh, Sibyl drew back.  Swiftly, as she had reached the arbor, she crossed the garden, and a moment later, paused at the studio door.  Again she hesitated—­then, gently,—­so gently that the artist, lost in his dreams, did not hear,—­she opened the door.  For a little, she stood watching him.  Softly, she took a few steps toward him.  The artist, as though sensing her presence, started and looked around.

She was standing as she stood in the picture; her hands outstretched, a smile of welcome on her lips, the light of gladness in her eyes.

As he rose from his chair before the easel, she went to him.