"Thanks,"--returned the artist,--"you are all coming to-morrow, at three,
you know. I would rather not show it to-day. It is a little late for the
best light; and I would like for _you_ to see it under the most favorable
conditions possible."

The critic was visibly flattered by the painter's manner and by his
well-chosen emphasis upon the personal pronoun. "Quite right"--he said
approvingly--"quite right, old boy." He turned to the novelist--"These
painter chaps, you know, Lagrange, like to have a few hours for a last
touch or two before _I_ come around." He laughed pompously at his own
words--the others joining.

When Mrs. Taine and her companions were gone, the artist said hurriedly
to his friend, "Come on, let's get it over." He led the way back to the
studio.

"I thought the light was too bad," said the older man, quizzingly, as they
entered the big room.

"It's good enough for _your_ needs," retorted the painter savagely. "You
could see all you want by candle-light." He jerked the curtain angrily
aside, and--without a glance at the canvas--walked away to stand at the
window looking out upon the rose garden--waiting for the flood of the
novelist's scorn to overwhelm him. At last, when no sound broke the quiet
of the room, he turned--to find himself alone.

Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slipped
quietly out of the building.

The artist found his friend, a few minutes later, meditatively smoking his