is legitimate art, Mr.
Lagrange. Your great artists that the West is to produce will not
necessarily be landscape painters or write essays upon nature, will they?"

"To portray human nature is legitimate work for an artist, yes"--agreed
the novelist--"but he must portray human nature _plus_. The forces that
_shape_ human nature are the forces that must be felt in the picture and
in the story. That these determining forces are so seldom seen by the eyes
of the world, is the reason _for_ pictures and stories. The artist who
fails to realize for his world the character-creating elements in the life
which he essays to paint or write, fails, to just that degree, in being an
artist; or is self-branded by his work as criminally careless, a charlatan
or a liar. That one who, for a price, presents a picture or a story
without regard for the influence of his production upon the characters of
those who receive it, commits a crime for which human law provides no
adequate punishment. Being the famous Conrad Lagrange, you understand, I
have the right to say this. You will probably believe it, some day--if
you do not now. That is, you will believe it if you have the soul and the
intelligence of an artist--if you have not--it will not matter--and you
will be happy in your success."

As the novelist finished speaking, the two men arrived at the hotel steps,
where they halted, with that indecision of chance acquaintances who have
no plans beyond the passing moment, yet who, in mutual interest, would
extend the time of their brief companionship. While they stood there, each
hesitating to make the advance, a big touring car rolled up the driveway,
and stopped under the full light of the veranda. Aaron King recognized the
lady of the observation car platform, with her two traveling companions
and the heavy-faced man who had met them at the depot. As the party
greeted the novelist and he returned their salutation, the artist turned
away to find again the chair, where, an hour before, the strange character
who was to play so large a part in his life and work had found him. The
dog, Czar, as if preferring the companionship of the artist to the company
of those who were engaging his master's attention, followed the young man.

From where he sat, the painter could see the tall, uncouth figure of the
famous novelist standing beside the automobile, while the occupants of the
car were, apparently, absorbingly interested in what he was saying. The