"I assure you I am not so wealthy that I can afford to refuse such an attractive commission.

You must admit that the beautiful Mrs.Taine is a subject worthy the brush of any artist; and I suppose it _is_ conceivable that I _might_ be ambitious to make a genuinely good job of it." The older man, as though touched by the evident sincerity of the artist's words, dropped his sneering tone and spoke earnestly; "The beautiful Mrs.
Taine _is_ a subject worthy a master's brush, my friend.

But take my word for it, if you paint her portrait _as a master would paint it_, you will sign your own death warrant--so far as your popularity and fame as an artist goes." "I don't believe it," declared Aaron King, flatly.
"I know you don't.

If you _did_, and still accepted the commission, you wouldn't be fit to associate with honest dogs like Czar, here." "But why"-- persisted the artist--"why do you insist that my portrait of Mrs.Taine will be disastrous to my success, just to the degree that it is a work of genuine merit ?" To which the novelist answered, cryptically, "If you have not the eyes to see the reason, it will matter little whether you know it or not.

If you _do_ see the reason, and, still, produce a portrait that pleases your sitter, then you will have paid the price; you will receive your reward; and"-- the speaker's tone grew sad and bitter--"you will be what I am." With this, he arose abruptly and, without another word, stalked into the hotel; the dog following with quiet dignity, at his heels.
From the beginning of their acquaintance, almost, the novelist and the artist had dropped into the habit of taking their meals together.