ebody famous."

Conrad Lagrange, studying her face, answered reluctantly, "No, he is not
famous; but I fear he is going to be."

"Another twisty saying," she retorted. "But I mean to have an answer, so
you may as well speak plainly. Have you known him long? What is his name?
And what is he--a writer?"

"His name is Aaron King. His mother and I grew up in the same
neighborhood. He is an artist."

"How romantic! Do you mean that he belongs to that old family of New
England Kings?"

"He is the last of them. His father was Aaron King--a prominent lawyer
and politician in his state."

"Oh, yes! I remember! Wasn't there something whispered at the time of his
death--some scandal that was hushed up--money stolen--or something? What
was it? I can't think."

"Whatever it was, Mrs. Taine, the son had nothing to do with it. Don't you
think we might let the dead man stay safely buried?" There was an ominous
glint in Conrad Lagrange's eyes.

Mrs. Taine answered hurriedly, "Indeed, yes, Mr. Lagrange. You are right.
And you shall bring Mr. King out to see me. If he is as nice as he looks,
I promise you I will be very good to him. Perhaps I may even help him a
little, through Jim, you know--bring him in touch with the right people
and that sort of thing. What does he paint?"

"Portraits." The novelist's tone was curt.

"Then I am _sure_ I could do a great deal for him."

"And I am sure you would do a great deal _to_ him," said Conrad Lagrange,
bluntly.

She laughed again. "And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Lagrange? I'm
not sure whether it is complimentary or otherwise."

"That depends upon what you consider complimentary," retorted the other.
"As I told you--Aaron King is an artist."

Again, she favored him with that look of doubtful understanding; shaking
her head with mock sadness, and making a long sigh. "Another twister"--she
said woefully--"just when we were getting along so beautifully, too.
Won't you try again?"

"In words of one syllable then--let him alone. He is, to-day, exactly
where I was twenty years ago. For God's sake, let him alone. Play your
game with those who are no loss to the world; or with those who, like me,
are already lost. Let this man do his work. Don't make him what I am."

"Oh dear, oh dear," she laughed, "and these are words of one syllable! You
talk as though I were a dreadful dragon seeking a genius to devour!"

"You are," said the novelist, gruffly.

"How nice. I'm all shiver