“You had better be helping a good cause instead of making fun, Mr. Lagrange,” the woman retorted.  “You weren’t always so famous yourself that you could afford to be indifferent, you know.”

Aaron King laughed as his friend replied, “Never fear, madam, never fear—­I shall be on hand to assist at the obsequies.”

In the shifting of the groups and figures, when dinner was announced, the young man found himself, again, within reach of Conrad Lagrange; and the novelist whispered, with a grin, “Now for the flesh-pots in earnest.  You will be really out of place in the next act, Aaron.  Only we artists who have sold our souls have a right to the price of our shame. You should dine upon a crust, you know.  A genius without his crust, huh!  A devil without his tail, or an ass without his long ears!”

Most conspicuous in the brilliant throng assembled in that banquet hall, was the horrid figure of Mr. Taine who sat in his wheeled chair at the head of the table; his liveried attendant by his side.  Frequently—­as though compelled—­eyes were turned toward that master of the feast, who was, himself, so far past feasting; and toward his beautiful young wife—­the only woman in the room, whose shoulders and arms were not bare.

At first, the talk moved somewhat heavily.  Neighbor chattered nothings to neighbor in low tones.  It was as though the foreboding presence of some grim, unbidden guest overshadowed the spirits of the company But gradually the scene became more animated The glitter of silver and crystal on the board; the sparkle of jewels and the wealth of shimmering colors that costumed the diners; with the strains of music that came from somewhere behind a floral screen that filled the air with fragrance; concealed, as it were, the hideous image of immorality which was the presiding genius of the feast.  As the glare of a too bright light blinds the eyes to the ditch across one’s path, so the brilliancy of their surroundings blinded the eyes of his guests to the meaning of that horrid figure in the seat of highest honor.  But rich foods and rare wines soon loose the tongues that chatter the thoughts of those who do not think.  As the glasses were filled and refilled again, the scene took color from the sparkling goblets.  Voices were raised to a higher pitch.  Shrill or boisterous laughter rang out, as jest and story went the rounds.  It was Mrs. Taine, now, rather than her husband, who dominated the scene.  With cheeks flushed and eyes bright she set the pace, nor permitted any laggards.

Conrad Lagrange watched, cool and cynical—­his worn face twisted into a mocking smile; his keen, baffling eyes, from under their scowling brows, seeing all, understanding all.  Aaron King, weary with the work of the past days, endured—­wishing it was over.

The evening was well under way when Mrs. Taine held up her hand.  In the silence, she said, “Listen!  I have a real treat for you, to-night, friends.  Listen!” As she spoke the last word, her eyes met the eyes of the artist, in mocking, challenging humor.  He was wondering what she meant, when,—­from behind that screen of flowers,—­soft and low, poignantly sweet and thrilling in its purity of tone, came the music of the violin that he had learned to know so well.