they were many--that he feared to spend an hour with that effervescing
young female devotee of the Arts--lest the mountains in their wrath should
fall upon him.

But that day, when Mrs. Taine came for the last sitting, the
novelist--engaged in interesting talk with the artist--forgot.

"You are caught," cried the painter, gleefully, as the big automobile
stopped at the gate.

"I'll be damned if I am," retorted the novelist, with no profane intent
but with meaning quite literal; and, seizing a book, he bolted through the
kitchen--nearly upsetting the startled Yee Kee.

"What's matte'," inquired the Chinaman, putting his head in at the
living-room door; his almond eyes as wide as they could go, with an
expression of celestial consternation that convulsed the artist. Catching
sight of the automobile, his oriental features wrinkled into a yellow grin
of understanding; "Oh! see um come! Ha! I know. He all time go, she come.
He say no like lagtime gal. Dog Cza', him all time gone, too; him no like
lagtime--all same Miste' Laglange. Ha! I go, too," and he, in turn,
vanished.

"You are early, to-day," said Aaron King, as he escorted Mrs. Taine to the
studio.

Just inside the door, she turned impulsively to face him--standing close,
her beautifully groomed and voluptuous body instinct with the lure of her
sex, her too perfect features slightly flushed, and her eyes submissively
downcast. "And have you forgotten that this is the last time I can come?"