"You are young--You
are beginning your life work--You are looking forward to success--You--"
"I _must_ succeed"--the painter interrupted impetuously--"I must."
"Succeed in _what_? What do you mean by success?"
"Surely, _you_ should understand what I mean by success," the younger man
retorted. "You who have gained--"
"Oh, yes; I forgot"--came the quick interruption--"I am the _famous_
Conrad Lagrange. Of course, you, too, must succeed. You must become the
_famous_ Aaron King. But perhaps you will tell me why you must, as you
call it, succeed?"
The artist hesitated before answering; then said with anxious earnestness,
"I don't think I can explain Mr. Lagrange. My mother--" he paused.
The older man stopped short, and, turning, stood for a little with his
face towards the mountains where San Bernardino's pyramid-like peak was
thrust among the stars. When he spoke, every bit of that bitter humor was
gone from his deep voice. "I beg your pardon, Mr. King"--he said
slowly--"I am as ugly and misshapen in spirit as in body."
But when they had walked some way--again in silence--and were drawing near
the hotel, the momentary change in his mood passed. In a tone of stinging
sarcasm he said.
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