It was nearly two months after Conrad Lagrange had introduced the young
man at the house on Fairlands Heights. The hour was late. The
painter--returning from a dinner and an evening at the Taine home--found
the novelist, with pipe and dog, in a deserted corner of the hotel
veranda. Dropping into the chair that was placed as if it awaited his
coming, the artist--with no word of greeting to the man--bent over the
brown head that was thrust so insistently against his knee, as Czar, with
gently waving tail, made him welcome. Looking affectionately into the
brown eyes while he stroked the silky coat, the young man answered in the
language that all dogs understand; while the novelist, from under his
scowling brows, regarded the two intently.
"They were disappointed that you were not there," said the painter,
presently. "Mrs. Taine, particularly, charged me to say that she will not
forgive, until you do proper penance for your sin."
"I had better company," retorted the other. "Czar and I went for a look at
the mountains. I suppose you have noticed that Czar does not care for the
Fairlands Heights crowd. He is very peculiar in his friendships--for a
dog. His instincts are remarkable.
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