r his meaning gaze, but carried it off gaily with--"Oh
dear! I wonder if my maid has hooked me up properly, this time?"

They left Mr. Taine in an easy chair, with a bottle of his favorite
whisky; and went over the place--from the arbor in the rose garden to Yee
Kee's pantry--Mr. Rutlidge, critically and authoritatively approving;
Louise, effervescing the same sugary nothings at every step; Mrs. Taine,
with a pretty air of proprietorship; Conrad Lagrange, thoughtfully
watching; and Aaron King, himself, irresponsibly gay and boyishly proud as
he exhibited his achievements.

In the studio, Mrs. Taine--standing before the big easel--demanded to
know of the artist, when he would begin her portrait--she was so
interested, so eager to begin--how soon could she come? Louise assumed a
worshipful attitude, and, gazing at the young man with reverent eyes,
waited breathlessly. James Rutlidge drew near, condescendingly attentive,
to the center of attraction. Conrad Lagrange turned his back.

"Really," murmured the painter, "I hope you will not be too impatient,
Mrs. Taine, I fear I cannot be ready for some time yet. I suppose I must
confess to being over-sensitive to my environment; for it is a fact that
my working mood does not come upon me readily amid strange surroundings.
When I have become acclimated, as it were, I will be ready for you."

"How wonderful!" breathed Louise.

"Quite right," agreed Mr. Rutlidge.

"Whenever you are ready," said Mrs. Taine, submissively.

When their friends from the Heights were gone, Conrad Lagrange looked the
artist up and down, as he said with cutting sarcasm, "You did that very
nicely. Over-sensitive to your environment, hell! If you _are_ a bit fine
strung, you have no business to make a _show_ of it. It's a weakness, not
a virtue. And the man who makes capital out of any man's weakness,--even
of his own,--is either a criminal or a fool or both."

Then they went back to the hotel for dinner.

The next morning, the artist and the novelist moved from the hotel, to
establish themselves in the little house in the orange groves--the
little house with its unobstructed view of the mountains, and with its
rose garden, so mysteriously tended.

Chapter VI

An Unknown Friend

When Yee Kee announced lunch, the artist, the novelist, and the dog were
settled in their new home. In the afternoon, the painter spent an hour
or two fussing over portfolios of old sketches, in his studio; whil