hooling in the
thought and spirit of the class in which Mrs. Taine belonged, is not
transformed by a single exhibition of painted truth. From the two
portraits, the woman turned to the larger canvas. Then she faced the
artist.

"You fool!" she said with bitter rage. "O you fool! Do you think that you
will ever be permitted to exhibit such trash as this?" she waved her hand
to include the three paintings. "Do you think that I am going to drag
you up the ladder of social position to fame and to wealth for such
reward as that?" she singled out her own portrait. "Bah! you are
impossible--impossible! I have been mad to think that I could make
anything out of you. As for your idiotic claim that you have painted the
truth--" She seized a large palette knife that lay with the artist's tools
upon the table, and springing to her portrait, hacked and mutilated the
canvas. The artist stood motionless making no effort to stop her. When the
picture was utterly defaced she threw it at his feet. "_That_, for your
truth, Mr. King!" With a quick motion, she turned toward the other
portrait.

But the artist, who had guessed her purpose, caught her hand. "That
picture was yours, madam--this one is mine." There was a significant ring
of triumph in his voice.

Neither Aaron King nor Mrs. Taine had noticed three people who had entered
the rose garden, from the orange grove, through the little gate in the
corner of the hedge. Conrad Lagrange, Myra Willard and Sibyl were going to
the studio; deliberately bent upon interrupting the artist at his work.
They sometimes--as Conrad Lagrange put it--made, thus, a life-saving crew
of three; dragging the painter to safety when the waves of inspiration
were about to overwhelm him. Czar, of course, took an active part in these
rescues.

As the three friends approached the trellised arch that opened from the
garden into the yard, a few feet from the studio door, the sound of Mrs.
Taine's angry voice, came clearly through the open window.

Conrad Lagrange stopped. "Evidently, Mr. King has company," he said,
dryly.

"It is Mrs. Taine, is it not?" asked Sibyl, quietly, recognizing the
woman's voice.

"Yes," answered the novelist.

The woman with the disfigured face said hurriedly, "Come, Sibyl, we must
go back. We will not disturb Mr. King, now, Mr. Lagrange. You two come
over this evening." They saw her face white and frightened.

"I believe I'll go back with you, if you don't mind," returned Con