Then, in a half embarrassed manner, Aaron King made his announcement.  “That may all be,” he said, “but just the same, I am going to work.”

“I knew it”—­returned the other, in mocking triumph—­“I knew it the moment you came up the steps there.  I could tell it by your walk; by the air with which you carried yourself; by your manner, your voice, your laugh—­you fairly reek of prosperity and achievement—­you are going to paint her portrait.”

“And why not?” retorted the young man, rather sharply, a trifle nettled by the other’s tone.

“Why not, indeed!” murmured the novelist.  “Indeed, yes—­by all means!  It is so exactly the right thing to do that it is startling.  You scale the heights of fame with such confident certainty in every move that it is positively uncanny to watch you.”

“If one’s work is true, I fail to see why one should not take advantage of any influence that can contribute to his success,” said the painter.  “I assure you I am not so wealthy that I can afford to refuse such an attractive commission.  You must admit that the beautiful Mrs. Taine is a subject worthy the brush of any artist; and I suppose it is conceivable that I might be ambitious to make a genuinely good job of it.”

The older man, as though touched by the evident sincerity of the artist’s words, dropped his sneering tone and spoke earnestly; “The beautiful Mrs. Taine is a subject worthy a master’s brush, my friend.  But take my word for it, if you paint her portrait as a master would paint it, you will sign your own death warrant—­so far as your popularity and fame as an artist goes.”

“I don’t believe it,” declared Aaron King, flatly.

“I know you don’t.  If you did, and still accepted the commission, you wouldn’t be fit to associate with honest dogs like Czar, here.”

“But why”—­persisted the artist—­“why do you insist that my portrait of Mrs. Taine will be disastrous to my success, just to the degree that it is a work of genuine merit?”

To which the novelist answered, cryptically, “If you have not the eyes to see the reason, it will matter little whether you know it or not.  If you do see the reason, and, still, produce a portrait that pleases your sitter, then you will have paid the price; you will receive your reward; and”—­the speaker’s tone grew sad and bitter—­“you will be what I am.”

With this, he arose abruptly and, without another word, stalked into the hotel; the dog following with quiet dignity, at his heels.

From the beginning of their acquaintance, almost, the novelist and the artist had dropped into the habit of taking their meals together.  At breakfast, the next morning, Conrad Lagrange reopened the conversation he had so abruptly closed the night before.  “I suppose,” he said, “that you will set up a studio, and do the thing in proper style?”

“Mrs. Taine told me of a place that is for rent, and that she thinks would be just the thing,” returned the young man.  “It is across the road from that big grove owned by Mr. Taine.  I was wondering if you would care to walk out that way with me this morning and help me look it over.”