“You may enjoy this without fear,” said he, smiling; “it will do you good.  It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore untampered with.  I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the surface.  That is a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one.  They float away from your lips in the action of drinking, and therefore they are no obstacle.”

I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow as summer moonlight.  While I sipped it the big Newfoundland, who had stretched himself in a couchant posture on the hearth-rug ever since Cellini had first entered the room, rose and walked majestically to my side and rubbed his head caressingly against the folds of my dress.

“Leo has made friends with you, I see,” said Cellini.  “You should take that as a great compliment, for he is most particular in his choice of acquaintance, and most steadfast when he has once made up his mind.  He has more decision of character than many a statesman.”

“How is it we have never seen him before?” I inquired.  “You never told us you had such a splendid companion.”

“I am not his master,” replied the artist.  “He only favours me with a visit occasionally.  He arrived from Paris last night, and came straight here, sure of his welcome.  He does not confide his plans to me, but I suppose he will return to his home when he thinks it advisable.  He knows his own business best.”

I laughed.

“What a clever dog!  Does he journey on foot, or does he take the train?”

“I believe he generally patronizes the railway.  All the officials know him, and he gets into the guard’s van as a matter of course.  Sometimes he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of the way.  But if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the train reaches its destination.  At the end of every six months or so, the railway authorities send the bill of Leo’s journeyings in to his master, when it is always settled without difficulty.”

“And who is his master?” I ventured to ask.

Cellini’s face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of grave contemplation as he answered: 

“His master, mademoiselle, is my master—­one who among men, is supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful.  To him I owe everything—­even life itself.  For him no sacrifice, no extreme devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my gratitude.  But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is above the sea.  Not here, not now, dare I say to him, my friend, behold how much I love thee! such language would be all too poor and unmeaning; but hereafter—­who knows?——­” and he broke off abruptly with a half-sigh.  Then, as if forcing himself to change the tenor of his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone:  “But, mademoiselle, I am wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of the favour you have shown me by your presence to-day.  Will you seat yourself here?” and he placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in one corner of the studio, opposite his own easel.  “I should be sorry to fatigue you at all,” he went on; “do you care for reading?”