The arrival of a visitor put an end to the invidious comparison.

“Ah, Strelitski!” cried Raphael, jumping up in glad surprise.  “What an age it is since I’ve seen you!” He shook the black-gloved hand of the fashionable minister heartily; then his face grew rueful with a sudden recollection.  “I suppose you have come to scold me for not answering the invitation to speak at the distribution of prizes to your religion class?” he said; “but I have been so busy.  My conscience has kept up a dull pricking on the subject, though, for ever so many weeks.  You’re such an epitome of all the virtues that you can’t understand the sensation, and even I can’t understand why one submits to this undercurrent of reproach rather than take the simple step it exhorts one to.  But I suppose it’s human nature.”  He puffed at his pipe in humorous sadness.

“I suppose it is,” said Strelitski wearily.

“But of course I’ll come.  You know that, my dear fellow.  When my conscience was noisy, the advocatus diaboli used to silence it by saying, ‘Oh, Strelitski’ll take it for granted.’  You can never catch the advocatus diaboli asleep,” concluded Raphael, laughing.

“No,” assented Strelitski.  But he did not laugh.

“Oh!” said Raphael, his laugh ceasing suddenly and his face growing long.  “Perhaps the prize-distribution is over?”

Strelitski’s expression seemed so stern that for a second it really occurred to Raphael that he might have missed the great event.  But before the words were well out of his mouth he remembered that it was an event that made “copy,” and little Sampson would have arranged with him as to the reporting thereof.

“No; it’s Sunday week.  But I didn’t come to talk about my religion class at all,” he said pettishly, while a shudder traversed his form.  “I came to ask if you know anything about Miss Ansell.”

Raphael’s heart stood still, then began to beat furiously.  The sound of her name always affected him incomprehensibly.  He began to stammer, then took his pipe out of his mouth and said more calmly;

“How should I know anything about Miss Ansell?”

“I thought you would,” said Strelitski, without much disappointment in his tone.

“Why?”

“Wasn’t she your art-critic?”

“Who told you that?”

“Mrs. Henry Goldsmith.”

“Oh!” said Raphael.

“I thought she might possibly be writing for you still, and so, as I was passing, I thought I’d drop in and inquire.  Hasn’t anything been heard of her?  Where is she?  Perhaps one could help her.”

“I’m sorry, I really know nothing, nothing at all,” said Raphael gravely.  “I wish I did.  Is there any particular reason why you want to know?”