Mr. Blyth’s visitors, now that their common center of attraction had disappeared, either dispersed again in the painting-room, or approached the door to take their departure. Zack, turning round sharply after Madonna had left the studio, encountered his queer companion, who had not stirred an inch while other people were all moving about him. “In the name of wonder, what has come to you now? Are you ill? Have you hurt yourself with that picture?” asked Zack, startled by the incomprehensible change which he beheld in his friend’s face and manner. “Come out,” said Mat. Young Thorpe looked at him in amazement; even the sound of his voice had altered! “What’s wrong?” asked Zack. No answer. They went quickly along the passage and down to the garden gate, in silence. As soon as they had got into one of the lonely bye-roads of the new suburb, Mat stopped short; and, turning full on his companion, said: “Who is she?” The sudden eagerness with which he spoke, so strangely at variance with his usual deliberation of tone and manner, made those three common words almost startling to hear. _“She?_ Who do you mean?” inquired young Thorpe. “I mean that young woman they were all staring at.” For a moment, Zack contemplated the anxiety visible in his friend’s face, with an expression of blank astonishment; then burst into one of his loudest, heartiest, and longest fits of laughter. “Oh, by Jove, I wouldn’t have missed this for fifty pounds. Here’s old Rough and Tough smitten with the tender passion, like all the rest of us! Blush, you brazen old beggar, blush! You’ve fallen in love with Madonna at first sight!” “Damn your laughing! Tell me who she is.” “Tell you who she is? That’s exactly what I can’t do.” “Why not? What do you mean? Does she belong to painter-man?” “Oh, fie, Mat! You mustn’t talk of a young lady _belonging_ to anybody, as if she was a piece of furniture, or money in the Three per Cents, or something of that sort. Confound it man, don’t shake me in that way! You’ll pull my arm off. Let me have my laugh, and I’ll tell you every thing.” “Tell it then; and be quick about it.” “Well, first of all, she is not Blyth’s daughter--though some scandal-mongering people have said she is--” “Nor yet his wife?” “Nor yet his wife. What a question! He adopted her, as they call it, years ago, when she was a child. But who she is, or where he picked her up, or what is her name, Blyth never _has_ told anybody, and never _will._ She’s the dearest, kindest, prettiest little soul that ever lived; and that’s all I know about her. It’s a short story, old boy; but surprisingly romantic--isn’t it?” Mat did not immediately answer. He paid the most breathless attention to the few words of information which Zack had given him--repeated them over again to himself--reflected for a moment--then said-- “Why won’t the painter-man tell any body who she is?”