“Good!” laughed the artist.  “I see; go on.  Who is the daughter of ‘Materialism?’”

“’Ragtime’,” promptly returned the novelist, with a grin.  “Who else could she be?”

“And Mrs. Taine?” urged the other.

The novelist responded quickly; “Why, the reigning ‘Goddess’ in the realm of ‘Modern Art,’ is ‘The Age,’ of course.  Do you see?  ‘The Age’ given over to ‘Materialism’ for base purposes by his companion, ‘Lust.’  And you——­” he paused.

“Go on,” cried the young man, “who or what am I in your story?”

“You, sir,”—­answered Conrad Lagrange, seriously,—­“in my story of modern life, represent Art.  It remains to be seen whether ‘The Age’ will add you to her collection, or whether some other influence will intervene.”

“And you”—­persisted the artist—­“surely you are in the story.”

“I am very much in the story,” the other answered.  “My name is ‘Civilization.’  My story will be published when I am dead.  I have a reputation to sustain, you know.”

Aaron King was not laughing, now.  Something, that lay deep hidden beneath the rude exterior of the man, made itself felt in his deep voice.  Some powerful force, underlying his whimsical words, gripped the artist’s mind—­compelling him to search for hidden meanings in the novelist’s fanciful suggestions.

A few moments passed in silence before the young man said slowly, “I met a character, yesterday, Mr. Lagrange, that might be added to your cast.”

“There are several that will be added to my cast,” the other answered dryly.

To which the painter returned, “Did you notice that woman with the disfigured face, at the depot?”

Conrad Lagrange looked at his companion, quickly.  “Yes.”

“Do you know her?” questioned the artist.

“No.  Why do you ask?”

“Only because she interested me, and because she seemed to know your friends—­Mr. Rutlidge and Mrs. Taine.”

The novelist knocked the ashes from his pipe by tapping it on the veranda railing.  The action seemed to express a peculiar mental effort; as though he were striving to recall something that had gone from his memory.  “I saw what happened at the depot, of course,” he said slowly.  “I have seen the woman before.  She lives here in Fairlands.  Her name is Miss Willard.  No one seems to know much about her.  I can’t get over the impression that I ought to know her—­that I have met and known her somewhere years ago.  Her manner, yesterday, at seeing Mrs. Taine, was certainly very strange.”  As if to free his mind from the unsuccessful effort to remember, he rose to his feet.  “But why should she be added to the characters in my novel, Mr. King?  What does she represent?”

“Her name,”—­said the artist,—­“in your study of life, is suggested by her face—­so beautiful on the one side—­so distorted on the other—­her name should be ’Symbol’.”

“There really is hope for you,” returned the older man, with his quizzing smile.  “Good night.  Come, Czar.”  He passed into the hotel—­the dog at his heels.