He was watching the rainbows that glimpsed in and out of the streams of cool water that the fountain, in the square, was sending up into the sun-light. And as he was so engaged, there came to his ear the sound of men's voices, speaking English with an unmistakable American accent.
He turned about.
One of the men was Wooton. As they came nearer, he recognized the other as Laurence Stanley. They were coming directly toward the garden, and in another instant they had seen him. Stanley put on his pince-nez. Then they hurried up to him with a flourish of hands.
"Why, God bless our home," laughed Wooton, "if here isn't our famous young friend, Dick Lancaster, the talk of two continents! I'm glad to see you, mighty glad."
"Stanley," said Dick, after they had all shaken hands, "what are you doing here? Where's Mrs. Stanley."
"My boy, I'm enjoying myself. I presume Mrs. Stanley is doing the same. For reasons not necessary of explanation to the mind capable in deduction we are not, at this moment, breathing the air of the same hemisphere."
"Will you fellows take a bit of lunch? We ought to celebrate this meeting with the famous, etcetera, etcetera," said Wooton.
"Look here," said Lancaster, a trifle coldly, "I'd just as soon you'd drop that adjective business. Here's the bill of the play, Stanley." He handed the carte-du-jour over.
While they were discussing their luncheon, chatting of the various causes that had brought them together, and recounting stories, and adventures, Wooton rose solemnly, after a few moments of reflection, and held out his hand to Lancaster. "I want to shake hands with you," he declared, "as with a genuine thoroughbred. I've been listening to you, watching you, and—but that was a long time ago,—hearing about you. You're not the Lancaster I knew."
But, for some strange reason, Lancaster did not hold out his hand. He pretended to be engaged in lifting his glass to his lips. Then he said, "I don't consider that a compliment."