Aaron King seemed loth to begin his work on the portrait of Mrs. Taine.
Day after day, without apparent reason, he put it off--spending the hours
in wandering aimlessly about the place, idling on the porch, or doing
nothing in his studio. He would start from the house to the building at
the end of the rose garden, as though moved by some clearly defined
purpose--and then, for an hour or more, would dawdle among the things of
his craft, with irresolute mind--turning over his sketches and drawings
with uncertain hands, as though searching for something he knew was not
there; toying with his paints and brushes; or sitting before his empty
easel, looking away through the big window to the distant mountains. He
seemed incapable of fixing his mind upon the task to which he attached so
much importance. Several times, Mrs. Taine called, but he begged her to be
patient; and she, with pretended awe of the moods of genius, waited.

Conrad Lagrange jeered and mocked, offered sneering advice or sarcastic
compliment; and, under it all, was keenly watchful and sympathetic--
understanding better than the artist himself, perhaps, the secret of the
painter's hesitation. Every day,--sometimes in the morning, sometimes in
the afternoon or evening unseen musician, in the orange grove wrought
for them melodie that, whether grave or gay, always carried, somehow,
the feeling that had so moved them in the mysterious darkness of
that first evening.

They knew, now, of course, that the musician lived in the neighboring
house--the gable and chimney of which was just visible above the
orange-trees. But that was all. Obedient to some whimsical impulse that
prompted them both, and was born, no doubt, of the circumstance and mood