"Whatever it was, Mrs. Taine, the son had nothing to do with it. Don't you think we might let the dead man stay safely buried?" There was an ominous glint in Conrad Lagrange's eyes.
Mrs. Taine answered hurriedly, "Indeed, yes, Mr. Lagrange. You are right. And you shall bring Mr. King out to see me. If he is as nice as he looks, I promise you I will be very good to him. Perhaps I may even help him a little, through Jim, you know--bring him in touch with the right people and that sort of thing. What does he paint?"
"Portraits." The novelist's tone was curt.
"Then I am sure I could do a great deal for him."
"And I am sure you would do a great deal to him," said Conrad Lagrange, bluntly.
She laughed again. "And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Lagrange? I'm not sure whether it is complimentary or otherwise."
"That depends upon what you consider complimentary," retorted the other. "As I told you--Aaron King is an artist."
Again, she favored him with that look of doubtful understanding; shaking her head with mock sadness, and making a long sigh. "Another twister"--she said woefully--"just when we were getting along so beautifully, too. Won't you try again?"
"In words of one syllable then--let him alone. He is, to-day, exactly where I was twenty years ago. For God's sake, let him alone. Play your game with those who are no loss to the world; or with those who, like me, are already lost. Let this man do his work. Don't make him what I am."
"Oh dear, oh dear," she laughed, "and these are words of one syllable! You talk as though I were a dreadful dragon seeking a genius to devour!"