Laughingly, she turned to the lattice wall of the arbor, and parting the screen of vines a little, said to him, “Look here!”

Standing beside her, Conrad Lagrange, through the window in the end of the studio next the garden, saw Aaron King at his easel; the artist’s position in the light of the big, north window being in a direct line between the two openings and the arbor.  Mrs. Taine was sitting too far out of line to be seen.

The girl laughed gleefully.  “Do you see him at his work?  At first, I only hid here to find what kind of people were going to live in my old home.  But when he was making our old barn into a studio, and I heard who you both were, I came because I love to watch him; as I try to make the music I think he would love to hear.”

The novelist studied her intently.  She was so artless—­so unaffected by the conventions of the world—­in a word, so natural in expressing her thoughts, that the man who had given the best years of his life to feed the vicious, grossly sensual and bestial imaginations of his readers was deeply moved.  He was puzzled what to say.  At last, he murmured haltingly, “You like the artist, then?”

Her eyes were full of curious laughter as she answered, “Why, what a funny question—­when I have never even talked with him.  How could I like any one I have never known?”

“But you make your music for him; and you come here to watch him?”

“Oh, but that is for the work he is doing; that is for his pictures.”  She turned to look through the tiny opening in the arbor.  “How I wish I could see inside that beautiful room.  I know it must be beautiful.  Once, when you were all gone, I tried to steal in; but, of course, he keeps it locked.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the man, suddenly—­prompted by her confession to resume his playful mood.

“What?” she asked eagerly, in a like spirit of fun.

“First,” he answered, half teasingly, “I must know if you could, now, make your music for me as well as for him.”

“For the you that loves the mountains and the garden I’m sure I could,” she answered promptly.

“Well then, if you will promise to do that—­if you will promise not to play yourself for just him alone but for me too—­I’ll fix it so that you can go into the studio yonder.”

“Oh, I will always play for you, too, anyway—­now that I know you.”

“Of course,” he said, “we could just walk up to the door, and I could introduce you; but that would not be proper for us would it?”

She shook her head positively, “I wouldn’t like to do that.  He would think I was intruding, I am sure.”

“Well then, we will do it this way—­the first day that Mr. King and I are both away, and Tee Kee is gone, too; I’ll slip out here and leave a letter and a key on your gate.  The letter will tell you just the time when we go, and when we will return—­so you will know whether it is safe for you or not, and how long you can stay.  Only”—­he became very serious—­“only, you must promise one thing.”