The two wanderers were standing once more in the cold, inhospitable streets of Lucifram. But they were not alone. A tall lady descending from her carriage had noticed the forlorn Rosalie, and pitying her tired condition had taken her within her house, promising her one night’s shelter at least. It may be simply stated to whom Rosalie in this hour of need had come. In this particular house in Lime Tree Square of the chief city of Lucifram there lived a very great painter and his sister. In his early youth he had had a hard struggle, not so much because he was poor, but because he was original. Now, for a man to have his own ideas in the city of Lucifram was to set all the dogs barking, the mob stone-flinging, and the Riot Act fluttering. It was very strange, but thousands of years of experience had taught little or nothing. The painter, as has been said, had his own ideas, and so at first they said he was an upstart, and very justly laughed at him. But laughter never yet cured madness or stamped out the truth, and as the painter seemed to be giving surreptitious invisible spiritual bites all round him, and setting the infection flying, it was recognised at last there must be some truth in his madness, and to a certain extent they let him be. And so from being badly abused the painter at last sprung into fame. He was a shy and reserved man, and somewhat irritable in his temper. But that was because his temperament and his work were of a kind that wear the nerves unevenly. But still when he liked he could be very charming, even Lucifram admitted that, and for the hidden virtues, they left those with a shrug to God the Serpent. And so in comparative early middle age he found himself the recipient of a knighthood; that is, he received a title very similar to “Sir”—and for simplicity we will call it such. Some spiteful people said this was on account of his good looks, but as it was a man sovereign who gave him the title, it’s hard to see what that could have to do with it. Now, Sir John himself had little belief in titles, but his sister had great belief in _him_, and though herself the simplest of plain women, she had ambitions so far as he was concerned. “A title’s an empty thing,” said he, looking at her in his serious, thoughtful way. “No one knows it better than I,” she answered, in her downright one. “And if you hadn’t the real thing to outshine it, I’d hate to see it offered to you. But it’s a courtesy you owe to the world in return for its courtesy. If you don’t accept it, you are churlish. Besides, I always think it’s the greatest honour that can befal a sovereign, to confer distinction upon genius, so that, even on a royal consideration, I think you ought to accept.” And so plain John Crokerly became Sir John, and was just the same before and after—neither more or less brilliant or imposing.