Louise effervesced a frothy
stream of bubbling exclamations. James Rutlidge gave a hearty, "By Jove,
old man, you have nerve! If you can really improve on that canvas, you are
a wonder." And Mr. Taine, under the watchful eye of his beautiful wife,
responded with a husky whisper, "Quite right--my boy--quite right!
Certainly--by all means--if you feel that way about it--" his consent and
approval ending in a paroxysm of coughing that left him weak and
breathless, and nearly eliminated him from the question, altogether.
When the Fairlands Heights party had departed, Conrad Lagrange looked the
artist up and down.
"Well,"--he growled harshly, in his most brutal tones,--"what is it? Is
the dog returning to his vomit?--or is the prodigal turning his back on
his hogs and his husks?"
Aaron King smiled as he answered, "I think, rather, it's the case of the
blind beggar who sat by the roadside, helpless, until a certain Great
Physician passed that way."
And Conrad Lagrange understood.
Chapter XXVIII
You're Ruined, My Boy
It was no light task to which Aaron King had set his hand. He did not
doubt what it would cost him. Nor did Conrad Lagrange, as they talked
together that evening, fail to point out clearly what it would mean to the
artist, at the very beginning of his career, to fly thus rudely in the
face of the providence that had chosen to serve him.
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