Presently, the novelist--refilling his pipe--said whimsically, "Some day, Mr. King, I shall write a true story. It shall be a novel of to-day, with characters drawn from life; and these characters, in my story, shall bear the names of the forces that have made them what they are and which they, in turn, have come to represent. I mean those forces that are so coloring and shaping the life and thought of this age." "That ought to be interesting," said the other, "but I am not quite sure that I understand." "Probably you don't. You have not been thinking much of these things. You have your eye upon Fame, and that old witch lives in another direction. To illustrate--our bull-necked friend and illustrious critic, James Rutlidge, in my story, will be named 'Sensual.' His distinguished father was one 'Lust.' The horrible example, Mr. Edward Taine,--boon companion of 'Lust,'--is 'Materialism'." "Good!" laughed the artist. "I see; go on. Who is the daughter of 'Materialism?'" "'Ragtime'," promptly returned the novelist, with a grin. "Who else could she be?" "And Mrs. Taine?" urged the other. The novelist responded quickly; "Why, the reigning 'Goddess' in the realm of 'Modern Art,' is 'The Age,' of course. Do you see? 'The Age' given over to 'Materialism' for base purposes by his companion, 'Lust.' And you----" he paused. "Go on," cried the young man, "who or what am I in your story?" "You, sir,"--answered Conrad Lagrange, seriously,--"in my story of modern life, represent Art. It remains to be seen whether 'The Age' will add you to her collection, or whether some other influence will intervene." "And you"--persisted the artist--"surely you are in the story." "I am very much in the story," the other answered. "My name is 'Civilization.' My story will be published when I am dead. I have a reputation to sustain, you know." Aaron King was not laughing, now. Something, that lay deep hidden beneath the rude exterior of the man, made itself felt in his deep voice. Some powerful force, underlying his whimsical words, gripped the artist's mind--compelling him to search for hidden meanings in the novelist's fanciful suggestions. A few moments passed in silence before the young man said slowly, "I met a character, yesterday, Mr. Lagrange, that might be added to your cast." "There are several that will be added to my cast," the other answered dryly. To which the painter returned, "Did you notice that woman with the disfigured face, at the depot?" Conrad Lagrange looked at his companion, quickly. "Yes." "Do you know her?" questioned the artist. "No. Why do you ask?" "Only because she interested me, and because she seemed to know your friends--Mr. Rutlidge and Mrs. Taine."