"His career has been pretty much a march of successive triumphs through the world of art, and he has left the critics only one peg on which to hang their carping." Steele spoke with the warmth of enthusiasm. He had succeeded in capturing Duska for a few minutes of monopoly in the semi-solitude of the verandah at the back of the club-house. Though he had a hopeless cause of his own to plead, it was characteristic of him that his first opportunity should go to the praise of his friend. "What is that?" The girl found herself unaccountably interested and ready to assume this stranger's defense even before she knew with what his critics charged him. "That he is a copyist," explained the man; "that he is so enamored of the style of Frederick Marston that his pictures can't shake off the influence. He is great enough to blaze his own trail--to create his own school, rather than to follow in the tracks of another. Of course," he hastened to defend, "that is hardly a valid indictment. Every master is, at the beginning of his career, strongly affected by the genius of some greater master. The only mistake lies in following in the footsteps of one not yet dead. To play follow-the-leader with a man of a past century is permissible and laudable, but to give the same allegiance to a contemporary is, in the narrow view of the critics, to accept a secondary place." The Kentuckian sketched with ardor the dashing brilliance of the other's achievement: how five years had brought him from lethal obscurity to international fame; how, though a strictly American product who had not studied abroad, his _Salon_ pictures had electrified Paris. And the girl listened with attentive interest. When the last race was ended and the thousands were crowding out through the gates, Saxon heard his host accepting a dinner invitation for the evening. "I shall have a friend stopping in town on his way East, whom I want you all to meet," explained Mr. Bellton, the prospective host. "He is one Senor Ribero, an attache of a South American legation, and he may prove interesting." Saxon caught himself almost frowning. He did not care for society's offerings, but the engagement was made, and he had now no alternative to adding his declaration of pleasure to that of his host. He was, however, silent to taciturnity as Steele's runabout chugged its way along in the parade of motors and carriages through the gates of the race-track inclosure. In his pupils, the note of melancholy unrest was decided, where ordinarily there was only the hint. "There is time," suggested the host, "for a run out the Boulevard; I'd like to show you a view or two." The suggestion of looking at a promising landscape ordinarily challenged Saxon's interest to the degree of enthusiasm. Now, he only nodded.