I'm
going to retire."
And she rang for her maid.
Chapter XII
First Fruits of His Shame
When the postman, in his little cart, stopped at the home of Aaron King
and his friend, that day, it was Conrad Lagrange who received the mail.
The artist was in his studio, and the novelist, knowing that the painter
was not at work, went to him there with a letter.
The portrait--still on the easel--was hidden by the velvet curtain.
Sitting by a table that was littered with a confusion of sketches, books
and papers, the young man was re-tying a package of old letters that he
had, evidently, just been reading.
As the novelist went to him, the artist said quietly,--indicating the
package in his hand,--"From my mother. She wrote them during the last year
of my study abroad." When the other did not reply, he continued
thoughtfully, "Do you know, Lagrange, since my acquaintance with you, I
find many things in these old letters that--at the time I received them--I
did not, at all, appreciate. You seem to be helping me, somehow, to a
better understanding of my mother's spirit and mind." He smiled.
Presently, Conrad Lagrange, when he could trust himself to speak, said,
"Your mother's mind and spirit, Aaron, were too fine and rare to be fully
appreciated or understood except by one trained in the school of life,
itself.
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