of the thoughts expressed, the young man sensed an undertone of pathetic sadness.  Or, again, perhaps, it was those rare moments, when—­on some walk that carried them beyond the outskirts of the town, and brought the mountains into unobstructed view—­the clouds of bitterness were lifted; and the man spoke with poetic feeling of the realities of life, and of the true glory and mission of the arts; counseling his friend with an intelligence as true and delicate as it was rare and fine.

It was nearly two months after Conrad Lagrange had introduced the young man at the house on Fairlands Heights.  The hour was late.  The painter—­returning from a dinner and an evening at the Taine home—­found the novelist, with pipe and dog, in a deserted corner of the hotel veranda.  Dropping into the chair that was placed as if it awaited his coming, the artist—­with no word of greeting to the man—­bent over the brown head that was thrust so insistently against his knee, as Czar, with gently waving tail, made him welcome.  Looking affectionately into the brown eyes while he stroked the silky coat, the young man answered in the language that all dogs understand; while the novelist, from under his scowling brows, regarded the two intently.

“They were disappointed that you were not there,” said the painter, presently.  “Mrs. Taine, particularly, charged me to say that she will not forgive, until you do proper penance for your sin.”

“I had better company,” retorted the other.  “Czar and I went for a look at the mountains.  I suppose you have noticed that Czar does not care for the Fairlands Heights crowd.  He is very peculiar in his friendships—­for a dog.  His instincts are remarkable.”

At the sound of his name, Czar transferred his attentions, for a moment, to his master; then stretched himself in his accustomed place beside the novelist’s chair.

The artist laughed.  “I did my best to invent an acceptable excuse for you; but she said it was no use—­nothing short of your own personal prayers for mercy would do.”

“Humph; you should have reminded her that I purchased an indulgence some weeks ago.”

Again, the other laughed shortly.  Watching him closely, Conrad Lagrange said, in his most sneering tones, “I trust, young man, that you are not failing to make good use of your opportunities.  Let’s see—­dinner and the evening five times—­afternoon calls as many—­with motor trips to points of interest—­and one theater party to Los Angeles—­believe me; it is not often that struggling genius is so rewarded—­before it has accomplished anything bad enough to merit such attention.”

“I have been idling most shamefully, haven’t I?” said the artist.

“Idling!” rasped the other.  “You have been the busiest hay-maker in the land.  These scientific, intensive cultivation farmers of California are not in your class when it comes to utilizing the sunshine.  Take my advice and continue your present activity without bothering yourself by any sentimental thoughts of your palette and brushes.  The mere vulgar tools of your craft are of minor importance to one of your genius and opportunity.”