At this moment a heavy step sounded on the stairs, the door opened, and there entered, to Lancelot’s astonishment, the stranger who had just puzzled him so much at his uncle’s.
Claude rose reverentially, and came forward, but Sabina was beforehand with him, and running up to her visitor, kissed his hand again and again, almost kneeling to him.
‘The dear master!’ she cried; ‘what a delightful surprise! we have not seen you this fortnight past, and gave you up for lost.’
‘Where do you come from, my dear master?’ asked Claude.
‘From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it,’ answered he, smiling, and laying his finger on his lips, ‘my dear pupils. And you are both well and happy?’
‘Perfectly, and doubly delighted at your presence to-day, for your advice will come in a providential moment for my friend here.’
‘Ah!’ said the strange man, ‘well met once more! So you are going to turn painter?’
He bent a severe and searching look on Lancelot.
‘You have a painter’s face, young man,’ he said; ‘go on and prosper. What branch of art do you intend to study?’
‘The ancient Italian painters, as my first step.’