e to-morrow--if we
desire the company of these distinguished artists--we will have to
follow--them to the mountains. I don't blame you, gentlemen--if I was
not--ah--temporarily incapacitated--I would certainly--go for a little
trip to the inspiring hills--myself. Even if I don't know--as much about
_music_ and _art_ as some of you." Again his words were interrupted by
that racking cough, the sound of which was lost in the applause that
greeted his witticism. Lifting the glass once more, he continued, "So
here's to our girl musician--who is her own--lovely self so much more
attractive than any music--she can ever make." He drained the glass, and
sank back into his chair, exhausted by his effort.

Aaron King was on the point of springing to his feet, when Conrad Lagrange
caught his eye with a warning look. Instantly, he remembered what the
result would be if he should yield to his impulse. Wild with indignation,
rage, and burning shame, he knew that to betray himself would be to invite
a thousand sneering questions and insinuations to besmirch the name of
the girl he loved.

In the continued applause and laughter that followed the drinking of the
millionaire's toast, the artist caught the admiring words, "Bully old
sport." "Isn't he game?" "He has certainly traveled some pace in his day."
"The girl is a beauty." "Let's have her in again." This last expression
was so insistently echoed that Mrs. Taine--who, through it all, had been
covertly watching Aaron King's face, and whose eyes were blazing now with
something more than the effect of the wine she had been drinking--was
forced to yield. A servant left the room, and, a moment later, reappeared,
followed by Sibyl.

The girl was greeted, now, by hearty applause which she, accepting as an
expression of the company's appreciation of her music, received with
smiling pleasure. The artist, his heart and soul aflame with his awakening
love, fought for self-control. Conrad Lagrange, catching his eye, again,
silently bade him wait.

Sibyl lifted her violin and the noisy company was stilled. Slowly, under
the spell of the music that, to him, was a message from the mountain
heights, Aaron King grew calm. His tense muscles relaxed. His twitching
nerves became steady. He felt himself as it were, lifted out of and above
the scene that a moment before had so stirred him to indignant anger. His
brain worked with that clearness and precision which he had known while
repainting Mrs. Ta