Colin and Hiram slept that night under the same roof, at Audouin\'s hotel. The wheel of Fate had at last brought the two young enthusiasts together, and they fraternised at once by mere dint of the similarity of their tastes and natural circumstances. Their lives had been so like—and yet so unlike; their fortunes had been so much the same—and yet so different. It was pleasant to compare notes with one another in the smoking-room about Wootton Mande ville and Geauga County, about the deacon and the vicar, Cicolari and Audouin; all things on earth, save only Gwen and Minna. Even Hiram didn\'t care to speak about Gwen. Young men in America are generally far more frank with one another about their love affairs than we sober, suspicious, unromantic English; they talk among themselves enthusiastically about their sweethearts, much as girls talk together in confidence in England. But Hiram in this respect was not American. His self-contained, self-restraining nature forbade him to hint a word even of the interest he felt in the beautiful stranger he had so oddly recognised in Sir Henry\'s salon.

But he would meet her again—that was something! He knew her name now, and all about her. As they left Sir Henry\'s hotel together, Gwen had turned with one of her gracious smiles to Sam, flooding his soul with her eyes, and said in that delicious trilling voice of hers: \'I can\'t forbear to tell you, Mr. Churchill, that I\'d been to see Sir Henry, as he hinted to you, on the very self-same errand as yourself, almost. I met your brother in the train coming here, and I learnt from him accidentally what he\'d come for, and how he was coming; and I couldn\'t resist going to tell that horrid old man the whole story. It was so delightful, you know, so very romantic. Of course I thought he\'d be only too delighted to hear it, and admire your brother\'s pluck and resolution so much, exactly as I did. I thought he\'d say at once “A sculptor! How magnificent! Then he shan\'t stay here with me another minute. I\'m a lover of art myself. I know what it must be to feel that divine yearning within one,” or something of that sort. “I won\'t allow a born artist to waste another moment of his precious time upon such useless and unworthy occupations. Let him go immediately and study his noble profession; I\'ll use all my interest to get him the best introductions to the very first masters in all Italy.” That\'s what a man of any heart or spirit would have said on the spur of the moment. Instead of that, the horrid old creature put up his eyeglass and stared at me so that I was frightened to death, and swore dreadfully, and said your brother oughtn\'t to have engaged himself under the circumstances; and used such shocking language, that I was just going to leave the room in a perfect state of terror when you came in and detained me for a minute. And then you saw yourself the dreadful rage he got into—the old wretch! I should like to see him put into prison or something. I\'ve no patience with him.\'

Hiram felt in his own soul at that moment a certain fierce demon rising up within him, and goading him on to some desperate vengeance. Was he alone the only man that Gwen didn\'t seem to notice or care for in any way? She was so cordial to Audouin, she was so cordial to Sam, and now she was so interested in Sam\'s unknown brother, whom she had only met casually in a railway carriage, that she had actually faced, alone and undaunted, this savage old curmudgeon of a British nobleman (Hiram\'s views as to the status of English baronets were as vague as those of the Tichborne Claimant\'s admirers), in order to release him from the necessary consequences of an unpleasant arrangement. But him, Hiram, she had utterly forgotten; and even when reminded of him, she only seemed to remember his personality in a very humiliating fashion as a sort of unimportant pendant or corollary to that brilliant Mr. Audouin. To him, she was all the world of woman; to her, he was evidently nothing more than an uninteresting young man, who happened to accompany that delightfully clever American whom she met at the Thousand Islands!

How little we all of us are to some people who are so very, very much to us!

But when she was leaving them at the door of her own hotel, Gwen handed Hiram a card with a smile that made amends for everything, and said so brightly: \'I hope we may see you again, Mr. Winthrop. I haven\'t forgotten your delightful picture. I\'m so fond of everything at all artistic. And how nice it is, too, that you\'ve got that charming Mr. Audouin still with you. You must be sure to bring him to see us here, or rather, I must send papa to call upon you. And, Mr. Churchill, as soon as your brother sets up a studio—I suppose he will now—we won\'t forget to drop in and see him at it. I\'m so very much interested in anything like sculpture.\'

Poor Hiram\'s heart sank again like a barometer to Very Stormy. She only wanted to see him again, then, because he\'d got Audouin with him! Hiram was too profoundly loyal to feel angry, even in his own heart, with his best friend and benefactor; but he couldn\'t help feeling terribly grieved and saddened and downcast, as he walked along silently the rest of the way through those novel crowded streets of Rome towards the H?tel de Russie. He felt sure he should cordially hate this horrid, interesting, interloping fellow, Sam\'s brother.

Sam had left a little note at the Allemagne to be given to Mr. Colin Churchill—Sir Henry\'s valet—as soon as ever he came back. In the note he told Colin he was to call round at once, without speaking to Sir Henry, for a very particular purpose, at the H?tel de Russie. The letter was duly signed: \'Your affectionate brother, Sam Churchill.\' Colin took it up and looked at it again and again. Yes, there was no denying it; it was Sam\'s handwriting, But how on earth had Sam got to Rome, and what on earth was Sam doing there? It was certainly all most mysterious. Still, the words \'without speaking to that old fool Sir Henry\' were trebly underlined, and Colin felt sure there must be some sufficient reason for them, especially as the arrangement of epithets was at once so correct and so forcible. So he turned hastily to the H?tel de Russie, filled with amazement at this singular adventure.

In Colin\'s mind, the Sam of his boyish memory was a Dorsetshire labourer clad in Dorsetshire country clothes, a trifle loutish (if the truth must be told), and with the easy, slouching, lounging gait of the ordinary English agricultural workman. When he called at the Russie, he was ushered up into a room where he saw three men sitting on a red velvet sofa, all alike American in face, dress, and action, and all alike, at first sight, complete strangers to him. When one of the three, a tall, hand............