After this, Yee Kee appeared upon the scene, and tea was served in the studio--a fitting ceremony to the launching of another genius.
"By the way, Mr. Lagrange," said Mrs. Taine, quite casually,--when, under the influence of the mildly stimulating beverage, the talk had assumed a more frivolous vein,--"Who is your talented neighbor that so charms Mr. King with the music of a violin?"
The novelist, as he turned toward the speaker, shot a quick glance at the Artist. Nor did those keen, baffling eyes fail to note that, at the question, James Rutlidge had paused in the middle of a sentence. "That is one of the mysteries of our romantic surroundings madam," said Conrad Lagrange, easily.
"And a very charming mystery it seems to be," returned the woman. "It has been quite affecting to watch its influence upon Mr. King."
The artist laughed. "I admit that I found the music, in combination with the beauty I have so feebly tried to out upon canvas, very stimulating."
A flash of angry color swept into the perfect cheeks of Mrs. Taine, as she retorted with meaning; "You are as flattering in your speech as you are with your brush. I assure you I do not consider myself in your unknown musician's class."
The small eyes of James Rutlidge were fixed inquiringly upon the speakers, while his heavy face betrayed--to the watchful novelist--an interest he could not hide. "Is this music of such exceptional merit?" he asked with an attempt at indifference.
Louise Taine--sensing that the performances of the unnamed violinist had been acceptable to Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King--the two representatives of the world to which she aspired--could not let the opportunity slip. She fairly deluged them with the spray of her admiring ejaculations in praise of the musician--employing, hit or miss, every musical term that popped into her vacuous head.
"Indeed,"--said the critic,--"I seem to have missed a treat." Then, directly to the artist,--"And you say the violinist is wholly unknown to you?"
Conrad Lagrange saw a faint smile of understanding and disbelief flit for an instant over the heavy face of James Rutlidge.
When the automobile, at last, was departing with the artist's guests; the two friends stood for a moment watching it up the road to the west, toward town. As the big car moved away, they saw Mrs. Taine lean forward to speak to the chauffeur while James Rutlidge, who was in the front seat, turned and shook his head as though in protest. The woman appeared to insist. The machine slowed down, as though the chauffeur, in doubt, awaited the outcome of the discussion. Then, just in front of that neighboring house, Rutlidge seemed to yield abruptly, and the automobile turned suddenly in toward the curb and stopped. Mrs. Taine alighted, and disappeared in the depths of the orange grove.