"
Conrad Lagrange's reply was as surprising in its way as was the outburst
of the artist. Instead of the tirade of biting sarcasm and stinging abuse
that the painter expected, the older man only gazed at him from under his
scowling brows and, shaking his head, sadly, said with sincere regret and
understanding "You poor fellow! It must be hell." Then, as his keen mind
grasped the full significance of the artist's words, he murmured
meditatively, "The personification of the age masquerading in Quaker
gray--Shades of the giants who used to be! What an opportunity--if you
only had the nerve to do it."
The artist flung out his hand in protest as he rose from his chair to pace
up and down the porch. "Don't, Lagrange, don't! I can't stand it, just
now."
"All right." said the other, heartily, "I won't." Rising, he put his hand
on his friend's shoulder. "Come, let's go for a look at the roses, before
Yee Kee calls us to dinner."
In the garden, the artist's eye caught sight of something white lying in
the well-kept path. With an exclamation, he went quickly to pick it up. It
was a dainty square of lace--a handkerchief--with an exquisitely
embroidered "S" in the corner.
The two men looked at each other in silence; with smiling, questioning
eyes.
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