He had come to his friend instinctively, as his friend would have come to him, meaning to tell him what had happened. But he hesitated. Besides, it might all have been only his imagination; in part it could have been nothing else, and the rest was a mere coincidence. But he had never been an imaginative man, and it was strange that he should be so much affected by a mere illusion.
He started and turned suddenly, sure that some one was close behind him. But there was no one, and a moment later Guido came back. Anxious not to annoy his friend by anything like curiosity, he made a pretence of setting his writing table in order, turned one of the lamps down a little—he hated electric light—and then looked at the picture over the fireplace.
"Did you ever hear of that Baumgarten, the German art critic?" he asked, without turning round.
"Baumgarten—let me see! I fancy I have seen the name to-day." Lamberti tried to concentrate his attention.
"You just read it in my aunt's letter," Guido answered. "You remember—she asks if he may come to-morrow. I wonder why."
"To value your property, of course," replied Lamberti, roughly.
"Do you think so?" Guido did not seem at all surprised. "I daresay. She is quite capable of it. She is welcome to everything I possess if she will only leave me in peace. But just now, when she has evidently made up her mind to marry me to this new heiress, it does not seem likely that she would take trouble to find out what my pictures are worth, does it?"
"It all depends on what she thinks of the chances that you will marry or not."
"What do you think of them, yourself?" asked Guido, idly.
He was glad of anything to talk about while Lamberti was in his present mood.