“Nonsense,” said the artist, somewhat sharply; nettled by the obvious meaning and by the sneering sarcasm of the novelist’s words and tone.

To which the other returned suggestively, “It is precisely because you can say, ‘nonsense,’ when you know it is no nonsense at all, but the exact truth, that your chance for fame is so good, my friend.”

“And did some reigning ‘Goddess’ insure your success and fame?”

The older man turned his peculiar, penetrating, baffling eyes full upon his companion’s face, and in a voice full of cynical sadness answered, “Exactly so.  I paid court to the powers that be.  They gave me the reward I sought; and—­they made me what I am.”

So it came about that Conrad Lagrange, in due time, introduced Aaron King to the house on Fairlands Heights.  Or,—­as the novelist put it,—­he, “Civilization",—­in obedience to the commands of her “Royal Highness”, “The Age",—­presented the artist at her “Majesty’s Court”; that the young man might sue for the royal favor.

It was, perhaps, a month after the presentation ceremony, that the painter made what—­to him, at least—­was an important announcement.

Chapter V

The Mystery of the Rose Garden

The acquaintance of Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange had developed rapidly into friendship.

The man whom the world had chosen to place upon one of the highest pinnacles of its literary favor, and who—­through some queer twist in his nature—­was so lonely and embittered by his exaltation, seemed to find in the younger man who stood with the crowd at the foot of the ladder, something that marked him as different from his fellows.

Whether it was the artist’s mother; some sacredly hidden memories of Lagrange’s past; or, perhaps, some fancied recognition of the artist’s genius and its possibilities; the strange man gave no hint; but he constantly sought the company of Aaron King, with an openness that made his preference for the painter’s society very evident.  If he had said anything about it, at all, Conrad Lagrange, likely, would have accounted for his interest, upon the ground that his dog, Czar, found the companionship agreeable.  Their friendship, meanwhile—­in the eyes of the world—­conferred a peculiar distinction upon the young man—­a distinction not at all displeasing to the ambitious artist; and the value of which he, probably, overrated.

To Aaron King—­aside from the subtle flattery of the famous novelist’s attention—­there was in the personality of the odd character a something that appealed to him with peculiar strength.  Perhaps it was that the man’s words, so often sharp and stinging with bitter sarcasm, seemed always to carry a hidden meaning that gave, as it were, glimpses of another nature buried deeply beneath a wreck of ruined dreams and disappointing achievements.  Or, it may have been that, under all the cruel, world-hardness