At this, Conrad Lagrange came back to the table; an expression of
anxiety upon his face. "What is it, old man? What's the matter? No bad
news, I hope?"
Aaron King, aroused from his fit of abstraction, laughed shortly, and held
out to his friend the letter he had just received. It was from Mr. Taine.
Enclosed was the millionaire's check. The letter was a formal business
note; the check was for an amount that drew a low whistle from the
novelist's lips.
"Rather higher pay than old brother Judas received for a somewhat similar
service, isn't it," he commented, as he passed the letter and check back
to the artist. Then, as he watched the younger man's face, he asked,
"What's the matter, don't you like the flavor of these first fruits of
your shame? I advise you to cultivate a taste for this sort of thing as
quickly as possible--in your own defense."
"Don't you think you are a little bit too hard on us all, Lagrange?" asked
the artist, with a faint smile. "These people are satisfied. The picture
pleases them."
"Of course they are pleased," retorted the other. "You know your business.
That's the trouble with you. That's the trouble with us all, these
days--we painters and writers and musicians--we know our business too
damned well.
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