“And a very charming mystery it seems to be,” returned the woman.  “It has been quite affecting to watch its influence upon Mr. King.”

The artist laughed.  “I admit that I found the music, in combination with the beauty I have so feebly tried to out upon canvas, very stimulating.”

A flash of angry color swept into the perfect cheeks of Mrs. Taine, as she retorted with meaning; “You are as flattering in your speech as you are with your brush.  I assure you I do not consider myself in your unknown musician’s class.”

The small eyes of James Rutlidge were fixed inquiringly upon the speakers, while his heavy face betrayed—­to the watchful novelist—­an interest he could not hide.  “Is this music of such exceptional merit?” he asked with an attempt at indifference.

Louise Taine—­sensing that the performances of the unnamed violinist had been acceptable to Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King—­the two representatives of the world to which she aspired—­could not let the opportunity slip.  She fairly deluged them with the spray of her admiring ejaculations in praise of the musician—­employing, hit or miss, every musical term that popped into her vacuous head.

“Indeed,”—­said the critic,—­“I seem to have missed a treat.”  Then, directly to the artist,—­“And you say the violinist is wholly unknown to you?”

“Wholly,” returned the painter, shortly.

Conrad Lagrange saw a faint smile of understanding and disbelief flit for an instant over the heavy face of James Rutlidge.

When the automobile, at last, was departing with the artist’s guests; the two friends stood for a moment watching it up the road to the west, toward town.  As the big car moved away, they saw Mrs. Taine lean forward to speak to the chauffeur while James Rutlidge, who was in the front seat, turned and shook his head as though in protest.  The woman appeared to insist.  The machine slowed down, as though the chauffeur, in doubt, awaited the outcome of the discussion.  Then, just in front of that neighboring house, Rutlidge seemed to yield abruptly, and the automobile turned suddenly in toward the curb and stopped.  Mrs. Taine alighted, and disappeared in the depths of the orange grove.

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange looked at each other, for a moment, in questioning silence.  The artist laughed.  “Our poor little mystery,” he said.

But the novelist—­as they went toward the house—­cursed Mrs. Taine, James Rutlidge, and all their kin and kind, with a vehement earnestness that startled his companion—­familiar as the latter was with his friend’s peculiar talent in the art of vigorous expression.

After dinner, that evening, the painter and the novelist sat on the porch—­as their custom was—­to watch the day go out of the sky and the night come over valley and hill and mountain until, above the highest peaks, the stars of God looked down upon the twinkling lights of the towns of men.  At that hour, too, it was the custom, now, for the violinist hidden in the orange grove, to make the music they both so loved.