“Very beautiful”—­he answered—­“exquisite taste—­perfect harmony with modern art.”  His quizzing eyes twinkled, and a caricature of a smile distorted his face.  “It fairly smells to heaven of the flesh pots.”

She laughed merrily.  “The odor should not be unfamiliar to you,” she retorted.  “By all accounts, your royalties are making you immensely rich.  How wonderful it must be to be famous—­to know that the whole world is talking about you!  And that reminds me—­who is your distinguished looking friend at the hotel?  I was dying to ask you, the other night, but didn’t dare.  I know he is somebody famous.”

Conrad Lagrange, studying her face, answered reluctantly, “No, he is not famous; but I fear he is going to be.”

“Another twisty saying,” she retorted.  “But I mean to have an answer, so you may as well speak plainly.  Have you known him long?  What is his name?  And what is he—­a writer?”

“His name is Aaron King.  His mother and I grew up in the same neighborhood.  He is an artist.”

“How romantic!  Do you mean that he belongs to that old family of New England Kings?”

“He is the last of them.  His father was Aaron King—­a prominent lawyer and politician in his state.”

“Oh, yes!  I remember!  Wasn’t there something whispered at the time of his death—­some scandal that was hushed up—­money stolen—­or something?  What was it?  I can’t think.”

“Whatever it was, Mrs. Taine, the son had nothing to do with it.  Don’t you think we might let the dead man stay safely buried?” There was an ominous glint in Conrad Lagrange’s eyes.

Mrs. Taine answered hurriedly, “Indeed, yes, Mr. Lagrange.  You are right.  And you shall bring Mr. King out to see me.  If he is as nice as he looks, I promise you I will be very good to him.  Perhaps I may even help him a little, through Jim, you know—­bring him in touch with the right people and that sort of thing.  What does he paint?”

“Portraits.”  The novelist’s tone was curt.

“Then I am sure I could do a great deal for him.”

“And I am sure you would do a great deal to him,” said Conrad Lagrange, bluntly.

She laughed again.  “And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Lagrange?  I’m not sure whether it is complimentary or otherwise.”

“That depends upon what you consider complimentary,” retorted the other.  “As I told you—­Aaron King is an artist.”

Again, she favored him with that look of doubtful understanding; shaking her head with mock sadness, and making a long sigh.  “Another twister”—­she said woefully—­“just when we were getting along so beautifully, too.  Won’t you try again?”

“In words of one syllable then—­let him alone.  He is, to-day, exactly where I was twenty years ago.  For God’s sake, let him alone.  Play your game with those who are no loss to the world; or with those who, like me, are already lost.  Let this man do his work.  Don’t make him what I am.”