rs, you make a virtue of
concealment. You make capital of the very thing of which you are ashamed."

"And is not that exactly what we all do?" she asked with brutal cynicism.
"Do you not fear the eyes of the world as much as I? Be satisfied that I
play the game of respectability with you--that I give the world no cause
for talk. You may as well be," she finished with devilish frankness, "for
you are past helping yourself in the matter."

As she finished, a servant appeared to announce Mr. Conrad Lagrange; and
the tall, uncouth figure of the novelist stood framed in the doorway; his
sharp eyes regarding them with that peculiar, quizzing, baffling look.

Edward Taine laughed with that horrid chuckle. "Howdy-do, Lagrange--glad
to see you."

Mrs. Taine went forward to greet the caller; saying as she gave him her
hand, "You arrived just in time, Mr. Lagrange; Edward and I were
discussing your latest book. We think it a masterpiece of realistic
fiction. I'm sure it will add immensely to your fame. I hear it talked of
everywhere as the most popular novel of the year. You wonderful man! How
do you do it?"

"I don't do it," answered Conrad Lagrange, looking straight into her
eyes. "It does itself. My books are really true products of the age that
reads them; and--to paraphrase a statesman who was himself a product of
his age--for those who read my books they are just the kind of books that
I would expect such people to read."

Mrs. Taine looked at him with a curious, half-doubtful half-wistful
expression; as though she glimpsed a hint of a meaning that did not appear
upon the surface of his words. "You do say such--such--twisty things," she
murmured. "I don't think I always understand what you mean; but when you
look at me that way, I feel as though my maid had neglected to finish
hooking me up."

The novelist bowed in mock gallantry--a movement which made his ungainly
form appear more grotesque than ever. "Indeed, madam, to my humble eyes,
you are most beautifully and fittingly--ah--hooked up." He turned toward
the invalid. "And how is the fortunate husband of the charming Mrs. Taine
to-day?"

"Fine, Lagrange, fine," said the man--a cough interrupting his words.
"Really, I think that Gertrude is unduly alarmed about my condition. In
this glorious climate, I feel like a three-year-old."

"You _are_ looking quite like yourself," returned the novelist.

"There's nothing at all the matter with me but a slight bronchial