Chapter VIII
The Portrait That Was Not a Portrait
Aaron King was putting the last touches to his portrait of the woman
who--Conrad Lagrange said--was the personification of the age.
From that evening when the young man told his friend the story of his
mother's sacrifice, their friendship had become like that friendship which
passeth the love of women. While the novelist, true to his promise, did
not cease to flay his younger companion--for the good of the artist's
soul--those moments when his gentler moods ruled his speech were, perhaps,
more frequent; and the artist was more and more learning to appreciate the
rare imagination, the delicacy of feeling, the intellectual brilliancy,
and the keenness of mental vision that distinguished the man whose life
was so embittered by the use he had made of his own rich gifts.
The novelist steadily refused to look at the picture while the work was in
progress. He said, bluntly, that he preferred to run no risk of
interfering with the young man's chance for fame; and that it would be
quite enough for him to look upon his friend's shame when it was
accomplished; without witnessing the process in its various stages.
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