James Rutlidge drew near, condescendingly attentive,
to the center of attraction. Conrad Lagrange turned his back.
"Really," murmured the painter, "I hope you will not be too impatient,
Mrs. Taine, I fear I cannot be ready for some time yet. I suppose I must
confess to being over-sensitive to my environment; for it is a fact that
my working mood does not come upon me readily amid strange surroundings.
When I have become acclimated, as it were, I will be ready for you."
"How wonderful!" breathed Louise.
"Quite right," agreed Mr. Rutlidge.
"Whenever you are ready," said Mrs. Taine, submissively.
When their friends from the Heights were gone, Conrad Lagrange looked the
artist up and down, as he said with cutting sarcasm, "You did that very
nicely. Over-sensitive to your environment, hell! If you _are_ a bit fine
strung, you have no business to make a _show_ of it. It's a weakness, not
a virtue. And the man who makes capital out of any man's weakness,--even
of his own,--is either a criminal or a fool or both."
Then they went back to the hotel for dinner.
The next morning, the artist and the novelist moved from the hotel, to
establish themselves in the little house in the orange groves--the
little house with its unobstructed view of the mountains, and with its
rose garden, so mysteriously tended.
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