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Updated: June 4, 2025
The soil out of which Fairlands is made is much richer, it is said, than the common dirt of her sister cities less than fifteen miles distant. A difference of only a few feet in elevation seems, strangely, to give her a much more rarefied air. Her proudest boast is that she has a larger number of millionaires in proportion to her population than any other city in the land.
But the artist did not, now, enter into the life of Fairlands' Pride for gain or for pleasure he went for study as a physician goes into the dissecting room. He justified himself by the old and familiar argument that it was for his art's sake. Sibyl Andrés, he seldom saw, except occasionally, in the early morning, in the rose garden.
Aaron King did not misunderstand. As the two men approached the big house on Fairlands Heights, they saw that modern palace, from concrete foundation to red-tiled roof, ablaze with many lights.
"I was up on that peak where you and I ate lunch the day you tried to make me see the Golden State Limited coming down from the pass. Brian Oakley sent me there to watch for buzzards." For a moment he turned away his face, then continued, "I saw flashes of light in Fairlands and on Granite Peak. I left a note for Brian and came over the range. I spent one night on the way.
She teaches music, and plays in one of the Fairlands churches." "You are a wonder," said one of the illustrious critics, admiringly. And lifting his glass, he cried, "Here's to our beautiful and talented hostess the patron saint of all the arts the friend of all true artists."
"The doctors tell me that he can't last through the winter. It'll be a relief to everybody when he goes. Mrs. Taine is well and beautiful, as always remarkable how she keeps up appearances, considering her husband's serious condition. Louise is quite as usual. They will all be back in Fairlands in another month. They sent regards to you both in case I should run across you."
"But," objected Aaron King, lazily, from where he lay under a live-oak on the mountainside, a few feet above the trail, "either route presupposes our wish to return to Fairlands." The novelist laughed. "Listen to him, Czar," he said to the dog lying at his feet, "listen to that painter-man. He doesn't want to go back to Fairlands any more than we do, does he?"
It was two days later Thursday that Conrad Lagrange made his memorable visit to the Taines memorable, in my story, because, at that time, Mrs. Taine gave such unmistakable evidence of her interest in Aaron King and his future. At the House on Fairlands Heights
"There is an art like those mountains, my boy lonely, apart from the world; remotely above the squalid ambitions of men; Godlike in its calm strength and peace an art to which men may look for inspiration and courage and hope. And there is an art that is like Fairlands petty and shallow and mean with only the fictitious value that its devotees assume, but never, actually, realize.
Following the Fairlands road until he came to where the Galena Valley road branches off from the Clear Creek way, three miles below the Power-House at the mouth of the canyon, Brian Oakley found the tracks of an automobile made without doubt, during the night just past. The machine had gone up the Galena Valley road, and had returned.
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