CHAPTER VII.
Mrs.Taine in Quaker Gray Aaron King seemed loth to begin his work on the portrait of Mrs.Taine.
Day after day, without apparent reason, he put it off--spending the hours in wandering aimlessly about the place, idling on the porch, or doing nothing in his studio.

He would start from the house to the building at the end of the rose garden, as though moved by some clearly defined purpose--and then, for an hour or more, would dawdle among the things of his craft, with irresolute mind--turning over his sketches and drawings with uncertain hands, as though searching for something he knew was not there; toying with his paints and brushes; or sitting before his empty easel, looking away through the big window to the distant mountains.

He seemed incapable of fixing his mind upon the task to which he attached so much importance.

Several times, Mrs.Taine called, but he begged her to be patient; and she, with pretended awe of the moods of genius, waited.
Conrad Lagrange jeered and mocked, offered sneering advice or sarcastic compliment; and, under it all, was keenly watchful and sympathetic-- understanding better than the artist himself, perhaps, the secret of the painter's hesitation.

Every day,--sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon or evening unseen musician, in the orange grove wrought for them melodie that, whether grave or gay, always carried, somehow, the feeling that had so moved them in the mysterious darkness of that first evening.
They knew, now, of course, that the musician lived in the neighboring house--the gable and chimney of which was just visible above the orange-trees.