“Rather!” assented Villiers shortly and with affected gruffness..  “If you were sure of nothing else in this world, you might be sure of that!"..  He paused squared his shoulders, and put up his eyeglass, through which he scanned his friend with such a persistently scrutinizing air, that Alwyn was somewhat amused.

“What are you staring at me for?” he demanded gayly,—­“Am I so bronzed?”

“Well—­you are rather brown,” admitted Villiers slowly ...  “But that doesn’t surprise me.  The fact is, it’s very odd and I can’t altogether explain it, but somehow I find you changed, . . positively very much changed too!”

“Changed?  In appearance, do you mean?  How?”

“‘Look here upon this picture and on this,’” quoted Villiers dramatically, taking down Alwyn’s portrait from the mantleshelf, and mentally comparing it with the smiling original.  “No two heads were ever more alike, and yet more distinctly UNlike.  Here”—­and he tapped the photograph—­“you have the appearance of a modern Timon or Orestes.. but now, as you actually are, I see more resemblance in your face to that”—­and he pointed to the serene and splendid bust of the “Apollo”—­“than to this ’counterfeit presentment,’ of your former self.”

Alwyn flushed,—­not so much at the implied compliment, as at the words “Former self.”  But quickly shaking off his embarrassment, he glanced round at the “Apollo” and lifted his eyebrows incredulously.

“Then all I can say, my dear boy, is, that that eyeglass of yours represents objects to your own view in a classic light which is entirely deceptive, for I fail to trace the faintest similitude between my own features and that of the sunborn Lord of Laurels.”

“Oh, you may not trace it,” said Villiers calmly, “but nevertheless others will.  Some people say that no man knows what he really is like, and that even his own reflection in the glass deceives him.  Besides, it is not so much the actual contour for the features that impresses one, it is the look,—­you have the look of the Greek god, the look of conscious power and inward happiness.”

He spoke seriously, thoughtfully,—­surveying his friend with a vague feeling of admiration akin to reverence.

Alwyn stooped, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze.  “Well, so far, my looks do not belie me,” he said gently, after a pause..  “I am conscious of both power and joy!”

“Why, naturally!” and Villiers laid one hand affectionately on his shoulder..  “Of course the face of the whole world has changed for you, now that you have won such tremendous fame!”

“Fame!”—­Alwyn sprang upright so suddenly that Villiers was quite startled,—­“Fame!  Who says I am famous?” And his eyes flashed forth an amazed, almost haughty resentment.

His friend stared—­then laughed outright.

“Who says it? ...  Why, all London says it.  Do you mean to tell me, Alwyn, that you’ve not seen the English papers and magazines, containing all the critical reviews and discussions on your poem of ’Nourhalma?”