“And you think you could stand living with me—­for any length of time?”

The’ painter laughed with relief.  “Oh, that’s it!  I didn’t know you had such a tender conscience.  You scared me for a minute, I should think you would know by this time that you can’t phase me with your wicked tongue.”

The novelist’s face twisted into a grotesque smile.  “I warn you—­I will flay you and your friends just the same.  You need it for the good of your soul.”

“As often and as hard as you like”—­returned the other, heartily—­“just so it’s for the good of my soul.  You will come?”

“You will permit me to stand my share of the expense?”

“Anything you like—­if you will only come.”

The older man said gently,—­for the first time calling the artist by his given name,—­“Aaron, I believe that you are the only person in the world who would, really want me; and I know that you are the only person in the world to whom I would be grateful for such an invitation.”

The artist was about to reply, when the big automobile stopped in front of the house.  Czar, on the porch, gave a low growl of disapproval; and, through the open door, they saw Mr. Taine and his wife with James Rutlidge and Louise.

The novelist said something, under his breath, that had a vicious sound—­quite unlike his words of the moment before.  Czar, in disgust, retreated to the shelter of Yee Kee’s domain.  With a laugh, the younger man went out to meet his friends.

“Are you at home this afternoon, Sir Artist?” called Mrs. Taine, gaily, as he went down the walk.

“I will always be at home to the right people,” he answered, greeting the other members of the party.

As they moved toward the house,—­Mr. Taine choking and coughing, his daughter chattering and exclaiming, and James Rutlidge critically observing,—­Mrs. Taine dropped a little back to Aaron King’s side.  “And are you really established, at last?” she asked eagerly; with a charming, confidential air.

“We move to-morrow morning,” he answered.

“We?” she questioned.

“Conrad Lagrange and I. He is going to live with me, you know.”

“Oh!”

It is remarkable how much meaning a woman can crowd into that one small syllable; particularly, when she draws a little away from you as she speaks it.

“Why,” he murmured apologetically, “don’t you approve?”

Mrs. Taine’s beautiful eyebrows went up inquiringly—­“And why should I either approve or disapprove?”

The young man was saved by the arrival of his guests at the porch steps, and by the appearance of Conrad Lagrange, in the doorway.

“How delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Taine, heartily; as she, in turn, greeted the famous novelist.  “Mr. King was just telling me that you were going to share this dear little place with him.  I quite envy you both.”

The others had passed into the house.