Mrs. Taine moved swiftly across the room toward her wrap.  Aaron King, going to his easel, drew the velvet curtain to hide the picture.

Chapter IX

Conrad Lagrange’s Adventure

Certainly, when Conrad Lagrange fled so precipitately from Louise Taine, that afternoon, he had no thought that the trivial incident was to mark the beginning of a new era in his life; or that it would work out in the life of his dearest friend such far reaching results.  His only purpose was to escape an hour of the frothy vaporings of the poor, young creature who believed herself so interested in art and letters, and who succeeded so admirably in expressing the spirit of her environment and training.

With his pipe and book, the novelist hid himself in the rose garden; finding a seat on the ground, in an angle of the studio wall and the Ragged Robin hedge, where any one entering the enclosure would be least likely to observe him.  Czar, heartily approving of his master’s action, stretched himself comfortably under the nearest rose-bush, and waited further developments.

Presently, the novelist heard his friend, with Mrs. Taine, come from the house and enter the studio.  For a moment, he entertained the uncomfortable fear that the artist, in a spirit of sheer boyish fun that so often moved him, would bring Mrs. Taine to the garden.  But the moment passed, and the novelist,—­mentally blessing the young man for his forbearance,—­with a chuckle of satisfaction, lighted his pipe and opened his book.  Scarcely had he found his place in the pages, however, when he was again interrupted—­this time, by the welcome tones of their neighbor’s violin.  Putting his book aside, the man reclining in the shelter of the roses, with half-closed eyes, yielded himself to the fancy of the spirit that called from the depths of the fragrant orange grove.

The mass of roses in the hedge and on the wall of the studio above his head dropped their lovely petals down upon him.  The warm, slanting rays of the afternoon sun, softened by the screen of shining leaves and branches, played over the bewildering riot of color.  Here and there, golden-bodied bees and velvet-winged butterflies flitted about their fairy-like duties.  Far above, in the deep blue, a hawk floated on motionless wings and a lonely crow laid his course toward the distant mountain peaks that gleamed, silvery white, above the blue and purple of the lower ridges and the tawny yellow of their foothills.  The air was saturated with the fragrance of the rose and orange blossoms, of eucalyptus and pepper trees, and with the thousand other perfumes of a California spring.

The music ceased.  The man waited—­hoping that it would begin again.  But it did not; and he was about to take up his book, once more, when Czar arose, stretched himself, stood for a moment in a picturesque, listening attitude, then trotted off among the roses; leaving the novelist with an odd feeling of uneasy expectancy—­half resolved to stay, half determined to go.  The thought of Louise in the house decided him, and he kept his place, hidden as he was, in the corner—­a whimsical smile hovering over his world-lined features as though, after all, he felt himself entering upon some enjoyable adventure.