“You are sometimes guilty of saying twisty things yourself, aren’t you?” returned the man; and, as he spoke, his remarkable eyes were fixed upon her as though reading her innermost thoughts.

She flushed under his meaning gaze, but carried it off gaily with—­“Oh dear!  I wonder if my maid has hooked me up properly, this time?”

They left Mr. Taine in an easy chair, with a bottle of his favorite whisky; and went over the place—­from the arbor in the rose garden to Yee Kee’s pantry—­Mr. Rutlidge, critically and authoritatively approving; Louise, effervescing the same sugary nothings at every step; Mrs. Taine, with a pretty air of proprietorship; Conrad Lagrange, thoughtfully watching; and Aaron King, himself, irresponsibly gay and boyishly proud as he exhibited his achievements.

In the studio, Mrs. Taine—­standing before the big easel—­demanded to know of the artist, when he would begin her portrait—­she was so interested, so eager to begin—­how soon could she come?  Louise assumed a worshipful attitude, and, gazing at the young man with reverent eyes, waited breathlessly.  James Rutlidge drew near, condescendingly attentive, to the center of attraction.  Conrad Lagrange turned his back.

“Really,” murmured the painter, “I hope you will not be too impatient, Mrs. Taine, I fear I cannot be ready for some time yet.  I suppose I must confess to being over-sensitive to my environment; for it is a fact that my working mood does not come upon me readily amid strange surroundings.  When I have become acclimated, as it were, I will be ready for you.”

“How wonderful!” breathed Louise.

“Quite right,” agreed Mr. Rutlidge.

“Whenever you are ready,” said Mrs. Taine, submissively.

When their friends from the Heights were gone, Conrad Lagrange looked the artist up and down, as he said with cutting sarcasm, “You did that very nicely.  Over-sensitive to your environment, hell!  If you are a bit fine strung, you have no business to make a show of it.  It’s a weakness, not a virtue.  And the man who makes capital out of any man’s weakness,—­even of his own,—­is either a criminal or a fool or both.”

Then they went back to the hotel for dinner.

The next morning, the artist and the novelist moved from the hotel, to establish themselves in the little house in the orange groves—­the little house with its unobstructed view of the mountains, and with its rose garden, so mysteriously tended.

Chapter VI

An Unknown Friend

When Yee Kee announced lunch, the artist, the novelist, and the dog were settled in their new home.  In the afternoon, the painter spent an hour or two fussing over portfolios of old sketches, in his studio; while Conrad Lagrange and Czar lounged on the front porch.

Once, the dog rose quietly, and, walking sedately to the edge of the porch toward the west, stood for some minutes gazing intently into the dark green mass of the orange grave.  At last, as if concluding that whatever it was it was all right, he went calmly back to his place beside the novelist’s chair.