"Oh, no--I have been amusing
myself by prowling around your place. Snug quarters you have here; really,
I never quite appreciated their charm, before."
They seated themselves on the porch. Conrad Lagrange--thinking of Sibyl
Andres and that letter which he had left on the gate--from under his
brows, watched their caller closely; the while he filled with painstaking
care his brier pipe.
"We like it," returned the artist.
"I should think so--I'd be sorry to leave it if I were you. Mr. Taine
tells me you are going to the mountains."
"We're not giving up this place, though," replied Aaron King. "Yee Kee
stays to take care of things until our return."
"Oh, I see. I generally go into the mountains, myself for a little hunt
when the deer season opens. It may be that I will run across you
somewhere. By the way--you haven't met your musical neighbor yet, have
you?"
The novelist gave particular attention to his pipe which did not seem to
be behaving properly.
The artist answered shortly, "No."
"I'd certainly make her acquaintance, if I were you," said Rutlidge, with
his suggestive smile. "She is a dream. A delightful little retreat--that
studio of yours."
The painter, puzzled by the man's words and by his insinuating air,
returned coldly, "It does very well for a work-shop.
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