"But I may see it?" she asked, as he laid aside his palette and brushes, and announced that he was through.
With a quick hand, he drew the curtain. "Not yet; please--not until I am ready."
"Oh!" she cried with a charming air of submitting to one whose wish is law, "How mean of you! I know it is splendid! Are you satisfied? Is it better than the other? Is it like me?"
"I am sure that it is much better than the other," he replied. "It is as like you as I can make it."
"And is it as beautiful as the other?"
"It is beautiful--as you are beautiful," he answered.
"I shall tell them all about it, to-morrow night--even if I haven't seen it. And so will Jim Rutlidge."
Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange spent that evening at the little house next door. The next morning, the artist shut himself up in his studio. At lunch time, he would not come out. Late in the afternoon, the novelist went, again, to knock at the door.
The artist called in a voice that rang with triumph, "Come in, old man, come in and help me celebrate."
Entering, Conrad Lagrange found him; sitting, pale and worn, before his picture--his palette and brushes still in his hand.