“I don’t do it,” answered Conrad Lagrange, looking straight into her eyes.  “It does itself.  My books are really true products of the age that reads them; and—­to paraphrase a statesman who was himself a product of his age—­for those who read my books they are just the kind of books that I would expect such people to read.”

Mrs. Taine looked at him with a curious, half-doubtful half-wistful expression; as though she glimpsed a hint of a meaning that did not appear upon the surface of his words.  “You do say such—­such—­twisty things,” she murmured.  “I don’t think I always understand what you mean; but when you look at me that way, I feel as though my maid had neglected to finish hooking me up.”

The novelist bowed in mock gallantry—­a movement which made his ungainly form appear more grotesque than ever.  “Indeed, madam, to my humble eyes, you are most beautifully and fittingly—­ah—­hooked up.”  He turned toward the invalid.  “And how is the fortunate husband of the charming Mrs. Taine to-day?”

“Fine, Lagrange, fine,” said the man—­a cough interrupting his words.  “Really, I think that Gertrude is unduly alarmed about my condition.  In this glorious climate, I feel like a three-year-old.”

“You are looking quite like yourself,” returned the novelist.

“There’s nothing at all the matter with me but a slight bronchial trouble,” continued the other, coughing again.  Then, to his wife—­“Dearest, won’t you ring, please; I’m sure it’s time for my toddy; perhaps Mr. Lagrange will join me in a drink.  What’ll it be, Lagrange?”

“Nothing, thanks, at this hour.”

“No?  But you’ll pardon me, I’m sure—­Doctor’s orders you know.”

A servant appeared.  Mrs. Taine took the glass and carried it to her husband with her own hand, saying with tender solicitude, “Don’t you think, dear, that you should lie down for a while?  Mr. Lagrange will remain for dinner, you know.  You must not tire yourself.  I’m sure he will excuse you.  I’ll manage somehow to amuse him until Jim and Louise return.”

“I believe I will rest a little, Gertrude.”  He turned to the guest—­“While there is nothing really wrong, you know, Lagrange, still it’s best to be on the safe side.”

“By all means,” said the novelist, heartily.  “You should take care of yourself.  Don’t, I beg, permit me to detain you.”

Mrs. Taine, with careful tenderness, accompanied her husband to the door.  When he had passed from the room, she faced the novelist, with—­“Don’t you think Edward is really very much worse, Mr. Lagrange?  I keep up appearances, you know, but—­” she paused with a charming air of perplexed and worried anxiety.

“Your husband is certainly not a well man, madam—­but you keep up appearances wonderfully.  I really don’t see how you manage it.  But I suppose that for one of your nature it is natural.”

Again, she received his words with that look of doubtful understanding—­as though sensing some meaning beneath the polite, commonplace surface.  Then, as if to lead away from the subject—­“You must really tell me what you think of our California home.  I told you in New York, you remember, that I should ask you, the first thing.  We were so sorry to have missed you last year.  Please be frank.  Isn’t it beautiful?”