He knows it,--Conrad Lagrange knows it,--Jim Rutlidge knows it,--the whole damned clique and gang of you know it, He's like all his kind,--a pretender,--a poser,--playing into the hands--of such women as you; to win social position--and wealth.

And we and our kind--we pretend to believe--in such damned parasites,--and exalt them and what we--call their art,--and keep them in luxury, and buy their pictures;--because they prostitute--their talents to gratify our vanity.

We know it's all a damned sham--and a pretense that if they were real artists,--with an honest workman's respect for their work,--they wouldn't--recognize us." "Don't forget to send him a check,"-- she murmured--"you can't afford to neglect it, you know--think how people would talk." "Don't worry," he replied.

"There'll be no talk.

I'll send the genius his check--for making love--to my wife in the sacred name of art,--and I'll lie--about his picture with--the rest of you.