He started, looked up, and recognised her. 'Armorel!' he cried. Then, strange to say, instead of hastening to meet and greet her, and to hold out hands of welcome, he stood gazing at her stupidly, his face changing colour from crimson to white. His hair was unkempt, she saw; his cheeks worn; his eyes haggard, with deep lines round them; and his dress was shabby and uncared for. 'You have not forgotten me, then?' she said. 'Forgotten you? No. How could I forget you?' 'Then are you pleased to see me? Shake hands with me, Roland Lee.' He complied, but with restraint. 'Have you dropped from the clouds?' he asked. 'How did you find me here?' 'I met your old friend Dick Stephenson. He told me that you lived here. You are no longer friends: but he has seen you going in and coming out. That is how I found you. Are you well, Roland?' 'Yes, I am well.' 'Does all go well with you, my old friend?' 'Why not? You see--I have got a magnificent studio: there is every outward sign of wealth and prosperity: and if you look into any art-criticisms you will find the papers ringing with my name.' 'You are changed.' Armorel passed over the bitterness of this speech. 'You are a little older, perhaps.' She did not tell him how haggard and worn he looked, how unkempt and unhappy. 'Let me see some of your work,' she said. The picture on the easel was only in its very first stage. She looked about the room. Nothing on the walls but one picture with its face turned round. 'May I look at this?' She turned it round. It was the picture of herself, 'The Princess of Lyonesse,' the sketch of which he had finished on the last day of his holiday. 'Oh!' she cried, 'I remember this. And you have kept it, Roland--you have kept it. I am glad.' 'Yes, I have kept the only picture which I can call my own.' 'Was I like that in those days?' 'You are like that now. Only, the little Princess has become a tall Queen.' 'Yes, yes; I remember. You said, then, that if I should ever look like this, you would be proved to be a painter indeed. Roland, you are a painter indeed.' 'No, no,' he said; 'I am nothing--nothing at all.' 'We were talking--when you made this sketch--of how one can grow to his highest and noblest.' 'I have grown to my lowest,' he replied. 'But you--you----' 'What has happened, my friend? You told me so much once about yourself--you taught me so much--you put so many new things into my head--you must tell me more! What has happened?' 'Nothing.' 'Why are you here in this poor room? I have been to studios in Rome and Florence, and Paris and Vienna: they are lovely rooms, fit for a man whose mind is always full of lovely images and sweet thoughts. But this--this room is not a studio. It is an ugly little prison. How can light and colour visit such a place?' 'It explains itself. It proclaims aloud--Failure--Failure--Failure!' 'This picture is not Failure.'