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Newspaper Page Text
man brazenly "haven't since;
don't see how I can now!"
"No," cooly announced the ar
tist. "Introduced and accepted
as Mr. Lane courted, feted as
the rich man worth knowing.
Then I met Irma."
. "Who's she?"
"Sidney Worth's sister. From
the minute I have had but one
ideal : To paint her picture some
"And slightly in love with her,
eh, Ralph?" intimated Lane.
"Well oh, no, I've got too
much sense to imagine myself a
suitable parti for a member of the
old and aristocratic Worth fam
ily." "H'ml" said Lane again
thoughtfully. "And-vvhat do you
"Why, we are going south day
after tomorrow. With our flitting
the episode is ended. No need of
disagreeable explanations. The
Worths know you were coming
today. We'll run up there to
night. Irma is interested in art,
music and all that, and particy
larly wishes to know you.
"To kndw Ralph Norman, the
artist, you mean?"
"A sort of mix up in personal
ity, isn't it? 'Too late to mend it
now, though, so " .
"Continue your Haroun al Ras
- chid career, and get through with
it," said Lane indifferently.
The young millionaire did not
leave Brocton with his friend that
day, nor the next. In fact, from
the evening when he was first in
troduced to Irma Worth the idea
seemed vividly injected into his
mind tfvt life had a new attrac
tion and was well worth the liv
He and his friend drifted into
the pleasantest wek they had
ever enjoyed. Norman was wild
to paint the portrait of his ideal
but "he was no longer "the ar-
tist!" As to Lane, so different
was Irma to the average run of
society belles who had. courted
him for his fortune, that a tie
grew stronger daily that he fear
ed it would be hard to break.
Lane winced one evening as
they strolled in the white moon
light, and all the poetry in thfc na
ture of his beautiful 4-cqmpanion
was called out by the rare loveli
ness of nature about them;.
From many a "word Irma had
dropped, Lane realized that her
brother had been a staunch friend
and admirer of Ralpfi Norman
"It must be a grand life, that of
yours," said Irma. "It seems to
me that the painter, the composer,
the-poet live in a sphere far above
the ordinary mortal. Mr Lane
gave me a little book last even
ing. It is called Idle Thoughts,'
and he says a friend of his wrote
it. I would like to know that
friend. This peace and beauty
about us reminded me of one of its
finest sentiments: 'Come up out
of the feverish into" the calm of
"She likes me I feel ft, I know
it," said Lane rather distressfully
to himself later, "but half that
fueling is for the sake of the art
she thinks I represent. I mif