“And is that all you have to say on the subject?” demanded the artist, as though for some reason he was disappointed at his friend’s reticence.

“I might add a word of advice,” said the other.

“Well, what is it?”

“That you pray your gods—­if you have any—­to be merciful, and bestow upon you either less genius or more intelligence to appreciate it.”

* * * * *

At three o’clock, the following afternoon, the little party from Fairlands Heights came to view, the portrait Or,—­as Conrad Lagrange said, while the automobile was approaching the house, “Well, here they come—­’The Age’, accompanied by ‘Materialism’, ‘Sensual’, and ’Ragtime’—­to look upon the prostitution of Art, and call it good.”  Escorted by the artist, and the novelist, they went at once to the studio.

The appreciation of the picture was instantaneous—­so instantaneous, in fact, that Louise Taine’s lips were shaped to deliver an expressive “oh” of admiration, even before the portrait was revealed.  As though the painter, in drawing back the easel curtain, gave an appointed signal, that “oh” was set off with the suddenness of a sky-rocket’s rush, and was accompanied in its flight by a great volume of sizzling, sputtering, glittering, adjectival sparks that—­filling the air to no purpose whatever—­winked out as they were born; the climax of the pyrotechnical display being reached in the explosive pop of another “oh” which released a brilliant shower of variegated sighs and moans and ecstatic looks and inarticulate exclamations—­ending, of course, in total darkness.

Mrs. Taine hastened to turn the artist’s embarrassed attention to an appreciation that had the appearance, at least, of a more enduring value.  Drawing, with affectionate solicitude, close to her husband, she asked,—­in a voice that was tremulous with loving care and anxiety to please,—­“Do you like it, dear?”

“It is magnificent, splendid, perfect!” This effort to give his praise of the artist’s work the appearance of substantial reality cost the wretched product of lust and luxury a fit of coughing that racked his burnt-out body almost to its last feeble hold upon the world of flesh and, with a force that shamed the strength of his words, drove home the truth that neither his praise nor his scorn could long endure.  When he could again speak, he said, in his husky, rasping whisper,—­while grasping the painter’s hand in effusive cordiality,—­“My dear fellow, I congratulate you.  It is exquisite.  It will create a sensation, sir, when it is exhibited.  Your fame is assured.  I must thank you for the honor you have done me in thus immortalizing the beauty and character of Mrs. Taine.”  And then, to his wife,—­“Dearest, I am glad for you, and proud.  It is as worthy of you as paint and canvas could be.”  He turned to Conrad Lagrange who was an interested observer of the scene—­“Am I not right, Lagrange?”