eyes of his companion, Aaron
King felt that his reply did not at all conceal his satisfaction.

"I am pleased to be exact. I repeat--Mrs. Taine wants you. I am ordered by
the reigning 'Goddess' of 'Modern Art'--'The Age'--to bring you into her
'Court.' You have won favor in her sight. She finds you good to look at.
She hopes to find you--as good as you look. If you do not disappoint her,
your fame is assured."

"Nonsense," said the artist, somewhat sharply; nettled by the obvious
meaning and by the sneering sarcasm of the novelist's words and tone.

To which the other returned suggestively, "It is precisely because you can
say, 'nonsense,' when you know it is no nonsense at all, but the exact
truth, that your chance for fame is so good, my friend."

"And did some reigning 'Goddess' insure your success and fame?"

The older man turned his peculiar, penetrating, baffling eyes full upon
his companion's face, and in a voice full of cynical sadness answered,
"Exactly so. I paid court to the powers that be. They gave me the reward I
sought; and--they made me what I am."

So it came about that Conrad Lagrange, in due time, introduced Aaron King
to the house on Fairlands Heights. Or,--as the novelist put it,--he,
"Civilization",--in obedience to the commands of her "Royal Highness",
"The Age",--presented the artist at her "Majesty's Court"; that the young
man might sue for the royal favor.

It was, perhaps, a month after the presentation ceremony, that the painter
made what--to him, at least--was an important announcement.

Chapter V

The Mystery of the Rose Garden

The acquaintance of Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange had developed rapidly
into friendship.

The man whom the world had chosen to place upon one of the highest
pinnacles of its literary favor, and who--through some queer twist in his
nature--was so lonely and embittered by his exaltation, seemed to find in
the younger man who stood with the crowd at the foot of the ladder,
something that marked him as different from his fellows.

Whether it was the artist's mother; some sacredly hidden memories of
Lagrange's past; or, perhaps, some fancied recognition of the artist's
genius and its possibilities; the strange man gave no hint; but he
constantly sought the company of Aaron King, with an openness that made
his preference for the painter's society very evident. If he had said
anything about it, at all, Conrad Lagrange, likely, would have accounted