Once more, the artist broke the silence,—­facing his mother’s friend with quiet resolution,—­as though he felt himself forced to speak but knew not exactly how to begin.  “Did you know her well—­after—­after my father’s death—­and while I was abroad?”

The other bowed his head—­“Yes.”

“Very well?”

“Very well.”

As if at loss for words, Aaron King still hesitated.  “Mr. Lagrange,” he said, at last, “there are some things about—­about mother—­that I would like to tell you—­that I think she would want me to tell you, under the circumstances.”

“Yes,” said Conrad Lagrange, gently.

“Well,—­to begin,—­you know, perhaps, how much mother and I have always been—­” his fine voice broke and the older man bowed his head; but, with a slight lift of his determined chin, the painter went on calmly—­“to each other.  After father’s death, until I was seventeen, we were never separated.  She was my only teacher.  Then I went away to school, seeing her only during my vacations, which we always spent, together in the country.  Three years ago, I went abroad to finish my study.  I did not see her again until—­until I was called home.”

“I know,” came in low tones from the other.

“But, sir, while it seemed necessary that I should be away from home,—­that we should be separated,—­all through this period, we exchanged almost daily letters; planning for the future, and looking forward to the time when we could, again, be together.”

“I know, Aaron.  It was very unusual—­and very beautiful.”

“When we were together, before I went away, I was a mere lad,” continued the artist.  “I knew in a general way that father had been a successful lawyer, and quite prominent in politics; and—­because there was no change in our manner of living after his death, and there seemed to be always money for whatever we wanted, I suppose—­I assumed, thoughtlessly, that there would always be plenty.  During the years while I was at school, there was never, in any way, the slightest hint in mother’s letters that would lead me to question the abundance of her resources.  When they called me home,—­” his voice broke, “—­I found my mother dying—­almost in poverty—­our home stripped of the art treasures she loved—­her own room, even, empty of everything save the barest necessities.”  In bitter sorrow and shame, the young man buried his face in his hands.

The novelist, his gaunt features twitching with the emotion that even his long schooling in the tragedies of life could not suppress, waited silently.

When the artist had regained, in a measure, his self-control, he continued,—­and every word came from him in shame and humiliation,—­“Before she died, she told me about—­my father.  In the settlement of his affairs, at the time of his death, it appeared that he had taken advantage of the confidence of certain clients and had betrayed his trust; appropriating large sums to his own interests.  He had even taken advantage of mother’s influence in certain circles, and, relying upon her unquestioning faith in his integrity, had made her an unconscious instrument in furthering his schemes.”