I went upstairs to change my travelling suit for a garb more becoming the office of best man, and then joined my uncle in the large drawing-room, where the guests staying with him for the wedding were gathered.
"I had better make my way to the hotel, and go with George to the church," I said to my uncle.
"Surely that is unnecessary," he suggested. "He knows you are not likely to fail him, doesn't he?"
"Oh, yes," I answered. "I telegraphed yesterday to say I was on the way, so he won't be afraid of my disappointing him."
"Then go to the church from here," my uncle said. "You must have had all the snow you want, and if you go in the first carriage you will be in plenty of time. Let me introduce you to some of the guests."
The most noticeable of these was a young man who had been watching me with a curiously attentive gaze. He was slender and had a graceful presence. From the profusion of his dark hair, and a certain air of detachment from his surroundings, I judged him to be a genius of some sort, an artist, a poet, or a musician. I looked inquiringly at my uncle who introduced this mortal to me by the name of Angelo Vasari.
"A gentleman," he remarked, "to whom you owe some thanks."
"Indeed?" I said with some surprise, for I had never heard of him before. "Well, that is a debt I am always ready to pay. But why am I in Mr. Vasari's debt?"
"Daphne sent you a portrait of George the other day."
"She did."