With one accord, the little group turned, now, to James Rutlidge--the dreaded authority and arbiter of artistic destinies. That distinguished expert, while the others were speaking, had been listening intently; ostensibly, the while, he examined the picture with a show of trained skill that, it seemed, could not fail to detect unerringly those more subtle values and defects that are popularly supposed to be hidden from the common eye. Silently, in breathless awe, they watched the process by which professional criticism finds its verdict. That is, they _thought_ they were watching the process. In reality, the method is more subtle than they knew. While the great critic moved back and forth in front of the easel; drew away from or bent over to closely scrutinize the canvas; shifted the easel a hair breadth several times; sat down; stood erect; hummed and muttered to himself abstractedly; cleared his throat with an impressive "Ahem"; squinted through nearly closed eyes, with his head thrown back, or turned in every side angle his fat neck would permit: peered through his half-closed fist; peeped through funnels of paper; sighted over and under his open hand or a paper held to shut out portions of the painting;--the others _thought_ they saw him expertly weighing the evidence for and against the merit of the work. In _reality_ it was his _ears_ and not his _eyes_ that helped the critic to his final decision--a decision which was delivered, at last, with a convincing air of ponderous finality. Indeed it was a judgment from which there could be no appeal, for it expressed exactly the views of those for whose benefit it was rendered. Then, in a manner subtly insinuating himself into the fellowship of the famous, he, too, turned to Conrad Lagrange with a scholarly; "Do you not agree, sir?" The novelist answered with slow impressiveness; "The picture, undoubtedly, fully merits the appreciation and praise you have given it. I have already congratulated Mr. King--who was kind enough to show me his work before you arrived." 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."