He sauntered out of the Hotel into the garden and from the garden down to the landing-place, where he slowly approached the artist, who was standing with his back towards him, slipping his lately earned francs into his trouser pocket. Several sample drawings were set up in view beside him,--lovely little studies of lake and mountain which would have done honour to many a Royal Academician, and Blythe paused, looking at these with wonder and admiration before speaking, unaware that the artist had taken a backward glance at him of swift and more or less startled recognition. "You are an admirable painter, my friend!" he said, at last--speaking in Italian of which he was a master. "Your drawings are worth much more than you are asking for them. Will you do one specially for me?" "I've done a good many for you in my time, Blythe!" was the half-laughing answer, given in perfect English. "But I don't mind doing another." And he turned round, pushing his cap off his brows, and showing a wonderfully handsome face, worn with years and privation, but fine and noble-featured and full of the unquenchable light which is given by an indomitable and enduring spirit. Lord Blythe staggered back and caught at the handrail of the landing steps to save himself from falling. "My God!" he gasped. "You! You, of all men in the world! You!--you, Pierce Armitage!" And he stared wildly, his brain swimming,--his pulses beating hammer-strokes--was it--could it be possible? The artist in brown trousers and white shirt straightened himself, and instinctively sought to assume a less tramp-like appearance, looking at his former friend meanwhile with a half-glad, half-doubtful air. "Well, well, Dick!" he said, after a moment's pause--"Don't take it badly that you find me pursuing my profession in this peripatetic style! It's a nice life--better than being a pavement artist in Pimlico! You mustn't be afraid! I'm not going to claim acquaintance with you before the public eye--you, a peer of the realm, Dick! No, no! I won't shame you..." "Shame me!" Blythe sprang forward and caught his hand in a close warm grip. "Never say that, Pierce! You know me better! Thank God you are here--alive!--thank God I have met you!--" He stopped, too overcome to say another word, and wrung the hand he held with unconscious fervour, tears springing to his eyes. The two looked full at each other, and Armitage smiled a little confusedly. "Why, Dick!" he began,--then turning his head quickly he glanced up at the clear blue sky to hide and to master his own emotion--"I believe we feel like a couple of sentimental undergrads still, Dick in spite of age and infirmities!" He laughed forcedly, while Blythe, at last releasing his hand, took him by the arm, regardless of the curious observation of some of the hotel guests who were strolling about the garden and terraces.