No. He had not forgotten that young lady. But he would never have known her thus changed--thus dressed. 'Where is your friend Roland Lee?' Dick Stephenson changed colour. 'I have not seen him for a long time. We are no longer--exactly--friends.' 'Why not?' she asked, with severity. 'Have you done anything bad? How have you offended him?' 'No, no; certainly not.' He coloured more deeply. 'I have done nothing bad at all,' he added with much indignation. 'Have you deserted him, then? I thought men never gave up their friends. Come to see me, Mr. Stephenson. You shall tell me where he is and what he is doing.' In the press of the crowd, as they were going away, she heard Mr. Jagenal's voice. 'You are burning the candle at both ends, Alec,' he was saying. 'You cannot possibly go on painting, writing, editing your paper, riding in the Park, and going out every evening as you do now. No man's constitution can stand it, young gentleman. Curb your activity. Be wise in time.' CHAPTER III THE CLEVEREST MAN IN LONDON Alec Feilding--everybody, even those who had never seen him, called him Alec--stood before the fire in his own den. In his hand he held a manuscript, which he was reading with great care, making dabs and dashes on it with a thick red pencil. Sometimes he called the place his studio, sometimes his study. No other man in London, I believe, has so good a right to call his workshop by either name. No other man in London, certainly, is so well known both for pen and pencil. To be at once a poet, a novelist, an essayist, and a painter, and to do all these things well, if not splendidly, is given to few. The room was large and lofty, as becomes a studio. A heavy curtain hung across the door: the carpet was thick: there was a great fireplace, as deep and broad as that of an old hall, the fire burning on bricks in the ancient style. Above the fireplace there was no modern overmantel, but dark panels of oak, carved in flowers and grapes, with a coat of arms--his own: he claimed descent from the noble House of Feilding: and in the centre panel his own portrait let into the wall without a frame--the work was executed by the most illustrious portrait-painter of the day--the face full of thought, the eyes charged with feeling, the features clear, regular, and classical. A beautiful portrait, with every point idealised. Three sides of the room were fitted with bookshelves, as becomes a study, and these were filled with books. The fourth side was partly hung with tapestry and partly adorned with armour and weapons. Here were also two small pictures, representing the illustrious Alec in childhood--the light of future genius already in his eyes--and in early manhood. A large library table, littered with books, manuscripts, and proofs, belonged to the study. An easel before the north light, and another table provided with palettes, brushes, paints, and all the tools of the limning trade, belonged to the studio.