And such a picture!
A moment, the novelist who knew--as few men know--the world that was revealed with such fidelity in that face upon the canvas, looked; then, with weird and wonderful oaths of delight, he caught the tired artist and whirled him around the studio, in a triumphant dance.
"You've done it! man--you've done it! It's all there; every rotten, stinking shred of it! Wow! but it's good--so damned good that it's almost inhuman. I knew you had it in you. I knew it was in you, all the time--if only you could come alive. God, man! if that could only be exhibited alongside the other! Look here!"
He dragged the easel that held Sibyl Andrés' portrait to a place beside the one upon which the canvas just finished rested, and drew back the curtain. The effect was startling.
"'The Spirit of Nature' and 'The Spirit of the Age'," said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone.
"But you're ruined, my boy," he added gleefully. "You're ruined. These canvases will never be exhibited Her own, she'll smash when she sees it; and you'll be artistically damned by the very gods she has invoked to bless you with fame and wealth. Lord, but I envy you! You have your chance now--a real chance to be worthy your mother's sacrifice.
"Come on, let's get ready for the feast."
Chapter XXIX
The Hand Writing on the Wall
It was November. Nearly a year had passed since that day when the young man on the Golden State Limited--with the inheritance he had received from his mother's dying lips, and with his solemn promise to her still fresh in his mind--looked into the eyes of the woman on the platform of the observation car. That same day, too, he first saw the woman with the disfigured face, and, for the first time, met the famous Conrad Lagrange.