The new-comer was a tall, robust-looking man in the prime of life, who was dressed with the utmost neatness and exactness, in the plain frock coat and grey-coloured trousers so much in favour among so-called business men Despite the ceremony with which he was introduced, and which showed that he was an individual of no small importance, his manner was modest and retiring in the extreme, and he looked around him on the splendid temple of modern painting, and at its famous owner, with smiling and good-humoured homage.

Serena put down his brush at once, and warmly shook hands. Then, seeing Madeline, the new-comer made a movement as if to retire.

‘I am afraid I interrupt you,’ he exclaimed.

But before he could say more, Madeline came forward gently, and offered her hand.

‘Miss Hazelmere!’ he exclaimed, recognising her; ‘or shall I rather call you by the name you’ve already made so famous?’

‘You know each other?’ interrupted Serena, with some surprise.

‘Oh yes,’ cried Madeline, smiling. ‘Mr. Forster and I are old, old friends.’

At this statement even the new-comer himself evinced some surprise; but Madeline continued—

‘When I was only a very little girl, Mr. Forster, I remember how you came to see my guardian one day when he was sick, and how, when you went away, he cried and told me how good you were. You came often after that, and we used to talk of you together. And the other night at the theatre, when I saw your face in the box, I felt so glad, and I said to myself, “I won’t be afraid now, for there are at least two kind faces in front—one my dear guardian’s, the other the face of the best friend he ever had in the world.”’

Under this simple praise Forster looked a little uncomfortable.

‘How is White?’ he inquired nervously, as if for want of something better to say.

Madeline did not immediately reply, so Serena answered for her.

‘At the present moment, my dear Forster, our friend White is the happiest fellow in all the world, or shall I rather say, in all Bohemia. A hundred successful original plays, a thousand successful adaptations, could not have given him half the pleasure that he feels at the triumph of his charming ward. And well may he be proud. He has hatched at his lonely hearth a phoenix, who rises out of the ashes of our drama, to glorify the stage.’

‘Ah, but you spoil me,’ said Madeline, well pleased, nevertheless. ‘It is so easy to act; and, besides, who but my dear guardian has taught me the little I know?’

‘For you it is easy,’ returned Serena, gallantly; ‘ah yes—and it is easy for a flower to look beautiful or for a lark to sing a splendid song. That is all the difference between genius and talent. All you have to do is to be natural, to be your charming self, and the art comes of itself, like the perfume from a rose.’

Madeline looked at Forster and laughed.

‘Mr. Serena would not say that,’ she said, ‘if he knew what a goose I was when I first began. It was in that little theatre at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, and when I went on the people could not hear a word, and I did not know what to do with my hands and feet. The manager said I was the greatest idiot who ever stept upon his stage, and he was right.’

Serena was not to be dismayed.

‘Another proof of genius,’ he cried. ‘Mere talent would have caught all the tricks of the stage, and by means of its affectations and insincerities gained cheap applause at the outset. I have often heard my friend Eugene Aram say that when he began he was so great a stick that no manager would keep him in his theatre. The people laughed at his legs, mimicked his voice. Critics compared him to the Knight of the Rueful Visage. He was invertebrate, inchoate, inarticulate. Look at him now. The people adore his legs and consider his voice music itself. That’s genius, my dear, depend upon it.’

‘One touch of genius makes amends for much,’ observed Forster quietly. ‘I don’t think Aram is a good actor even now, but he is interesting and intelligent, and his eccentricities have a fascination.’ He added, turning to the picture in the easel, ‘May I ask, is that picture a commission?’

Serena shook his head.

‘If I could afford it,’ he answered, ‘I should say “Yes,” and make a present of it—to the original. But it’s not worthy of her; upon my word it’s not worthy. I’m ashamed of my art when I compare my miserable attempt to the reality.’

‘It is very like,’ said Forster thoughtfully, studying before the canvas; ‘but too sorrowful; too sorrowful! I should not like to see Miss Hazelmere look like that.’

‘You see, it’s an “Ophelia,”’ observed Serena apologetically.

‘I would rather you had painted her as smiling and happy. So young a face should not reveal such depths of suffering. There is no hope here, and in Miss Hazelmere’s face all should be hope and happiness.’

Turning to glance at Madeline, he was startled and surprised. She was gazing now at the picture with the very expression depicted in it; all life, all pleasure seemed to have faded out of her face, leaving nothing but blankness there, and the shadow of a painful dream. Her thoughts seemed to have wandered far away, and have left her unconscious of the presence in which she stood.

But while he gazed the look faded, and the light came back to her eyes. Meeting his gaze she smiled, and held out her hand.

‘I must go now,’ she said; ‘my sitting is over, and I am already past my time.’

‘Do you ride or walk?’ asked Forster.

‘I am going to walk across the park, and then, at the Marble Arch, I shall take a cab.’

‘May I offer myself as an escort?’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I am going that way, and—and———’

He paused, smiling benignly and blushing boyishly, but Madeline at once put her hand upon his arm and accepted his escort with a happy smile. Serena saw them to the door, and watched them as they walked chatting up the street.

‘I think I know the signs,’ muttered the painter to himself, ‘and if Forster is not fascinated, Eros Athanatos is no true god. Well, so be it. It will be none the worse for my pictures, and a splendid thing for the girl.’

Left alone with Madeline, Forster felt constrained and a little uneasy, but her perfect simplicity and frankness soon put him entirely at his ease. She was indeed happy beyond measure in his accidental companionship. Since her early childhood his name had been familiar to her as that of one whom White emphatically pronounced to be ‘the best man he had ever known or hoped to know,’ and his perfect gentleness and kindliness, which impressed even the most casual observer of his countenance, won the open-hearted girl at once. Leaning lightly on his arm, she chatted away frankly and fearlessly, as she might have done to White himself. Frank without boldness, fearless without forwardness, in every word and gesture free and spirituelle without affectation, she fairly won her way to his heart of hearts. Talking with her was like talking with a child; she was so unconscious of herself, so un reserved; and this, seeing her wonderful physical beauty, constituted at once her peril and her charm.

Passing in at Albert Gate, they crossed Rotten Row, and strolled quietly across the park. It was a bright golden day, and Madeline, always the creature of physical and external impressions, seemed to kindle into new gladness. She looked at the fair horsewomen, of whom there was a fair sprinkling already, though it was early in the afternoon, and laughed for pleasure.

‘Do you like riding?’ she asked. ‘I have never ridden; but I think if I were on a horse’s back, I could ride—and ride—and ride—and never stop.’

‘You would find it duller than you think,’ said Forster. ‘I ride here often, and do not think it very amusing.’

To his astonishment Madeline asked, quietly—

‘Does Mrs. Forster ride?’

‘Mrs. Forster?’ he repeated.

‘I mean your wife.’

‘My wife,’ he echoed, in still greater astonishment. ‘I am not married!’

‘How strange!’ exclaimed Madeline, with raised eyebrows. ‘Not married?’

‘Why is it so strange?’ asked Forster, with a laugh.

‘You do not look like an old bachelor—no, I don’t mean that; but there is something in your manner which makes one think of a kind wife, and little children, and home. You are not old, and yet I feel as if I could speak to you so freely, and could tell you anything, as I do my dear guardian. Do you understand?’

‘I think I do—partly,’ answered Forster, not without a certain uneasiness.

‘And that lady whom I saw you with at the theatre on the first night of “Cymbeline”—I thought she was Mrs. Forster.’

‘That was my sister.’

They walked on for a little in silence. Forster was the first to speak.

‘It is curious, after all, that you should class me among the married people, for the fact is, I am a widower. My poor wife died many years ago, and left me one child, a boy. My sister keeps my house; but when you talk of home, and home ties, I cannot help telling you that I am a very lonely man—quite an old bachelor, indeed, in my way. When, after a long day in the City, I return to my house, and get among my books and pictures, I am still lonely, but sometimes very happy after all.’

A girl less na?ve and unsuspicious than Madeline might have been astonished at this fragment of autobiography, coming from such a man, and might have questioned her own fascinations as to the origin of such candour. But Madeline thought it quite natural, as between friend and friend.

‘But let us speak of other things,* continued Forster, after a pause, ‘of yourself. I sometimes think, if you will forgive me for saying so, that you must be rather lonely too.’

‘No,’ she replied readily; adding with her brightest smile, ‘not while I have Mr. White.’

‘Ah, he is a good fellow—but you have neither father nor mother.’

Madeline shook her head.

‘They died long ago. I do not remember them.’

‘Your other relations?’

‘I have none.’

‘None?’

‘When my father died I was left with poor people, who brought me up. Then trouble came, and Uncle Mark died, and I was brought to Mr. White. Uncle Luke brought me. After he went away he used to write me, but at last all letters ceased. Mr. White made inquiries, but he had disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone. Dear Uncle Luke!’

Her voice was broken, and her eyes were full of tears.

‘What made you think of going upon the stage?’

‘I used to go to the theatre with Mademoiselle de Berny, and she used to make me hear her go through her parts. I always loved acting, Mr. Forster, and at Mr. White’s there were so many professional people. Afterwards, when I was older, I tried to think how I could repay my dear guardian for all his kindness, and then I thought if I could act—only a little—it would be some help. When he first heard me recite he was pleased, and I told him I would like to become an actress and act in his plays. So he sent me down into the country to try. That was how it began.’

‘And you like acting?’

‘B............