The cicerone did most of the talking, though now and then the other made a remark or two in broken Italian. But this was only for the first few moments. He soon became oblivious of all save art, of which one could see at a glance he was passionately fond. One of Mr. Brown's pictures--a large one he was then engaged on--particularly attracted his attention. He drew closer and closer to the canvas, examining it with a minuteness that showed the connoisseur, and finally remarked: "It is very fine in color, sir, and the atmosphere is delicious. Why have I not heard of you before?" examining the corner of the canvas for the artist's name, but speaking in a tone and with an air that gave Brown the impression he was indulging in the random flattery so current in studios. So, ignoring the question, he asked with a slight shrug of the shoulders, "Are you an artist?" "I paint a little," was the reply, with an air of modesty which Brown mistook for the bashful half-assertion of some daubing amateur. Just then the cicerone came forward and announced that the bargain was completed and the room ready for occupancy. "I shall be happy--no, _happy_ is not a good word for me--I shall be glad to see you in my studio when I have moved in, and perhaps you may see some things to please you." So saying, the stranger departed, leaving Brown not a whit better impressed with him than at first. The next morning the two called again, when the gentleman made an examination of the room selected the day before, having met Mr. Brown in the hall-way and invited him in. On entering, the new occupant took from his pocket a piece of chalk and a compass and made a number of circles and figures on the floor to determine when the sun would shine in the room. Brown watched him with a certain degree of curiosity and amusement, and finally, concluding he was half crazy, returned to his own studio. The next day the cicerone called alone to see about some repairs, when Brown hailed him: "_Buono giorno. Che è questo_?" ("Good-day. Who is that?") "_Non sapete_?" ("Don't you know?"), was the Italian's response. "Why, that is the celebrated Brullof." Brown started as though shot. First there flashed through his brain the remembrance of how cavalierly he had treated the distinguished artist, and then a quick panorama of his recent history, which had been the gossip of studios and art-circles for some time back. "I must go to him," he said, "and apologize for not treating him with more deference." "_Non, signore_," was the cicerone's response. "Never mind: let it rest. He is a man of the world, and pays little heed to such things. Besides, he is so overwhelmed with his private griefs that he has probably noticed no slight."