As he looked at him, Arthur Merlin was exceedingly impressed by the air of reckless grace in his whole appearance, which harmonized so entirely with his face.  Lawrence Newt watched his friend as the latter gazed at Abel.  Lawrence always saw a great deal whenever he looked any where.  Perhaps he perceived the secret dissatisfaction and feeling of sudden alarm which, without any apparent reason, Arthur felt as he looked at Abel.

But the longer Arthur Merlin looked at Abel the more curiously perplexed he was.  The feeling which, if he had not been a painter so utterly devoted to his profession that all distractions were impossible, might have been called a nascent jealousy, was gradually merged in a half-consciousness that he had somewhere seen Abel Newt before, but where, and under what circumstances, he could not possibly remember.  He watched him steadily, puzzling himself to recall that face.

Suddenly he clapped his hand upon the table.  Lawrence Newt, who was looking at him, saw the perplexity of his expression smooth itself away; while Arthur Merlin, with an “oh!” of surprise, satisfaction, and alarm, exclaimed—­and his color changed—­

“Why, it’s Manfred in the Coliseum!”

Lawrence Newt was confounded.  Was Arthur, then, not deceiving himself, after all?  Did he really take an interest in all these people only as a painter, and think of them merely as subjects for pictures?

Lawrence Newt was troubled.  He had seen in Arthur with delight what he supposed the unconscious beginnings of affection for Hope Wayne.  He had pleased himself in bringing them together—­of course Amy Waring must be present too when he himself was, that any tete-a-tete which arose might not be interrupted—­and he had dreamed the most agreeable dreams.  He knew Hope—­he knew Arthur—­it was evidently the hand of Heaven.  He had even mentioned it confidentially to Amy Waring, who was profoundly interested, and who charitably did the same offices for Arthur with Hope Wayne that Lawrence Newt did for the young candidates with her.  The conversation about the picture of Diana had only confirmed Lawrence Newt in his conviction that Arthur Merlin really loved Hope Wayne, whether he himself knew it or not.

And now was he all wrong, after all?  Ridiculous!  How could he be?

He tried to persuade himself that he was not.  But he could not forget how persistently Arthur had spoken of Hope only as a fine Diana; and how, after evidently being struck with Abel Newt, he had merely exclaimed, with a kind of suppressed excitement, as if he saw what a striking picture he would make, “Manfred in the Coliseum!”

Lawrence Newt drank a glass of wine, thoughtfully.  Then he smiled inwardly.

“It is not the first time I have been mistaken,” thought he.  “I shall have to take Amy Waring’s advice about it.”

As he and his friend passed the other table, on their way out, Abel nodded to his uncle; and as Arthur Merlin looked at him carefully, he was very sure that he saw the person whose face so singularly resembled that of Manfred’s in the picture he had given Hope Wayne.