" His quizzing eyes twinkled, and a caricature of a smile
distorted his face. "It fairly smells to heaven of the flesh pots."
She laughed merrily. "The odor should not be unfamiliar to you," she
retorted. "By all accounts, your royalties are making you immensely rich.
How wonderful it must be to be famous--to know that the whole world is
talking about you! And that reminds me--who is your distinguished looking
friend at the hotel? I was dying to ask you, the other night, but didn't
dare. I know he is somebody famous."
Conrad Lagrange, studying her face, answered reluctantly, "No, he is not
famous; but I fear he is going to be."
"Another twisty saying," she retorted. "But I mean to have an answer, so
you may as well speak plainly. Have you known him long? What is his name?
And what is he--a writer?"
"His name is Aaron King. His mother and I grew up in the same
neighborhood. He is an artist."
"How romantic! Do you mean that he belongs to that old family of New
England Kings?"
"He is the last of them. His father was Aaron King--a prominent lawyer
and politician in his state."
"Oh, yes! I remember! Wasn't there something whispered at the time of his
death--some scandal that was hushed up--money stolen--or something? What
was it? I can't think.
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