The artist was sorry, he said, but, while it would not be necessary for her to come to the studio again, the picture was not yet finished, and he could not permit its being exhibited until he was ready to sign the canvas. "But I may see it?" she asked, as he laid aside his palette and brushes, and announced that he was through. With a quick hand, he drew the curtain. "Not yet; please--not until I am ready." "Oh!" she cried with a charming air of submitting to one whose wish is law, "How mean of you! I know it is splendid! Are you satisfied? Is it better than the other? Is it like me?" "I am sure that it is much better than the other," he replied. "It is as like you as I can make it." "And is it as beautiful as the other?" "It is beautiful--as you are beautiful," he answered. "I shall tell them all about it, to-morrow night--even if I haven't seen it. And so will Jim Rutlidge." Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange spent that evening at the little house next door. The next morning, the artist shut himself up in his studio. At lunch time, he would not come out. Late in the afternoon, the novelist went, again, to knock at the door. The artist called in a voice that rang with triumph, "Come in, old man, come in and help me celebrate." Entering, Conrad Lagrange found him; sitting, pale and worn, before his picture--his palette and brushes still in his hand. And such a picture! A moment, the novelist who knew--as few men know--the world that was revealed with such fidelity in that face upon the canvas, looked; then, with weird and wonderful oaths of delight, he caught the tired artist and whirled him around the studio, in a triumphant dance. "You've done it! man--you've done it! It's all there; every rotten, stinking shred of it! Wow! but it's good--so damned good that it's almost inhuman. I knew you had it in you. I knew it was in you, all the time--if only you could come alive. God, man! if _that_ could only be exhibited alongside the other! Look here!" He dragged the easel that held Sibyl Andrés' portrait to a place beside the one upon which the canvas just finished rested, and drew back the curtain. The effect was startling. "'The Spirit of Nature' and 'The Spirit of the Age'," said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone. "But you're ruined, my boy," he added gleefully. "You're ruined. These canvases will never be exhibited Her own, she'll smash when she sees it; and you'll be artistically damned by the very gods she has invoked to bless you with fame and wealth. Lord, but I envy you! You have your chance now--a real chance to be worthy your mother's sacrifice. "Come on, let's get ready for the feast." Chapter XXIX The Hand Writing on the Wall