But I would not. I would not accept
it. I thought if I could win fame that she--" he checked himself suddenly.
"But you have led me to accept it, old man," cried the artist heartily.
"You have opened my eyes. You have helped me to understand my mother, as I
never could have understood her, alone."
Conrad Lagrange smiled. "Perhaps," he admitted whimsically. "No doubt good
may sometimes be accomplished by the presentation of a horrible example.
But go on with your private exhibition. I'll not keep you longer. Come,
Czar."
In spite of the artist's protests, he left the studio.
While the painter was putting away his letters, the novelist and the dog
went through the rose garden and the orange grove, straight to the little
house next door. They walked as though on a definite mission.
Sibyl and Myra Willard were sitting on the porch.
"Howdy, neighbor," called the girl, as the tall, ungainly form of the
famous novelist appeared. "You seem to be the bearer of news. What is the
latest word from the seat of war?"
"It is finished," said Conrad Lagrange, returning Myra's gentle greeting,
and accepting the chair that Sibyl offered.
"The picture?" said the girl eagerly, a quick color flushing her cheeks.
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