Notwithstanding this candid confession of cynical egotism, the man had greatness in him, and those who knew his works readily recognised his power.  The impression he had made on Innocent’s guileless and romantic nature was beyond analysis,—­she did not try to understand it herself.  His name and the connection he had with the old French knight of her childhood’s dreams and fancies had moved and roused her to a new interest in life—­and just as she had hitherto been unwilling to betray the secret of her literary authorship, she was now eager to have it declared—­for one reason only,—­that he might perhaps think well of her.  Whereby it will be seen that the poor child, endowed with a singular genius as she was, knew nothing of men and their never-failing contempt for the achievements of gifted women.  Delicate of taste and sensitive in temperament she was the very last sort of creature to realise the ugly truth that men, taken en masse, consider women in one only way—­that of sex,—­as the lower half of man, necessary to man’s continuance, but always the mere vessel of his pleasure.  To her, Amadis de Jocelyn was the wonderful realisation of an ideal,—­but she was very silent concerning him, —­reserved and almost cold.  This rather surprised good Miss Lavinia Leigh, whose romantic tendencies had been greatly stirred by the story of the knight of Briar Farm and the discovery of a descendant of the same family in one of the most admired artists of the day.  They visited Jocelyn’s studio together—­a vast, bare place, wholly unadorned by the tawdry paraphernalia which is sometimes affected by third-rate men to create an “art” impression on the minds of the uninstructed—­and they had stood lost in wonder and admiration before a great picture he was painting on commission, entitled “Wild Weather.”  It was what is called by dealers an “important work,” and represented night closing in over a sea lashed into fury by the sweep of a stormy wind.  So faithfully was the scene of terror and elemental confusion rendered that it was like nature itself, and the imaginative eye almost looked for the rising waves to tumble liquidly from the painted canvas and break on the floor in stretches of creamy foam.  Gentle Miss Leigh was conscious of a sudden beating of the heart as she looked at this masterpiece of form and colour,—­it reminded her of the work of Pierce Armitage.  She ventured to say so, with a little hesitation, and Jocelyn caught at the name.

“Armitage?—­Yes—­he was beginning to be rather famous some five-and-twenty years ago—­I wonder what became of him?  He promised great things.  By the way”—­and he turned to Innocent—­“Your name is Armitage!  Any relation to him?”

The colour rushed to her cheeks and fled again, leaving her very pale.

“No,” she answered.

He looked at her inquisitively.

“Well, Armitage is not as outlandish a name as Amadis de Jocelyn,” he said—­“You will hardly find two of me!—­and I expect I shall hardly find two of you!” and he smiled—­“especially if what I have heard is anything more than rumour!”